The Legend of Dragoon: The Dragon Campaign
by Brian Moody
Summary: It is known that the earth was barren and desolate. It is known that The Creator, Soa, sent a single seed to the earth. It is known that from that seed grew the Divine Tree, and from that tree grew one hundred and seven fruit. And it is known that from each fruit came a new form of life to fill the world. All else is merely legend. But behind all legends is the truth that made them
1. Chapter 1- The Moon That Never Sets

Charle looked at her brother fearfully, "Are you certain this will work?"  
"Of course it will." Melbu replied showing every bit of the hubris he was known for.  
"And even if it wouldn't, we passed the point of no return long ago." Faust interjected into the siblings argument. Of course he would advocate this plan. He was the most powerful of the young winglies, but it never seemed enough to him. Charle had admired that fire in her foolish childhood but now it frightened her. Almost as much as her brother frightened her now.  
"If we fail this egg will hatch. And all the world will perish." Charle didn't mean to sound so frightened. But she was frightened.  
Melbu was quick to reply "If we did nothing it would hatch and kill us all the same. We can stop it." He spoke to her but his eyes remained fixed on the egg. The 108th fruit born of the Divine Tree. "We will stop this so-called God of Destruction."  
Charle opened her mouth to argue, but couldn't find the words. It was their only option at this point. They had come too far to find another way.  
Faust interrupted her uncertain thoughts, "We need to begin. We can't afford any more delays."  
And so they set about their work. Charle, Melbu, Faust, and 97 other winglies who had agreed to their plan drawing on the power of a hundred dragons they had lulled into a magical sleep. They had already set the paths for the magic to travel through. Now they just needed to channel all that they could. And pray it worked. Charle wished she was as sure as her brother and Faust were. This HAD to work.  
The three winglies who had formed this plan began walking slowing around the colossal final fruit of the Divine Tree, ensuring all the other winglies' magic traveled as it was meant to. Ensuring their plan didn't back fire and condemn them all to an unimaginable hell.  
They couldn't see the magic. No one could see magic. But they could feel it, whether it came from them or not. And so they felt the magic traveling the predetermined routes around and through the fruit. And soon found the moment they had prepared for, but dreaded absolutely. The moment the creature began to resist.  
Charle was so shocked she almost stumbled. They had prepared for the eventuality but for it to actually happen was unthinkable. For an unborn creature to resist magical influence was impossible. And yet their magic was running into something. She began to worry that perhaps this was the will of Soa and by going against him they had picked a fight they could not win.  
But soon whatever had resisted was subverted and washed away entirely. Charle released a long breath she had not realized she had been holding. But soon enough she was on edge again. For the only thing she had feared nearly as much as their failure was happening. They were succeeding. The air around her became thick as if it were becoming jelly, and there was a lack of sound so profound the weight of it seemed more deafening than the roar of a dozen grieving dragons.  
Suddenly the thickness took on a bright white light, so that Charle could see nothing but the white, and it obliterated her companions, their surroundings and the fruit itself. But slowly it began to recede, revealing all that it had concealed, until all that was left was a glowing sphere, the Crystal Sphere they had created to house this creature's soul.  
Charle saw that Melbu and Faust both let their eyes linger on the Sphere for an exaggerated moment, even as they continued weaving the magic. Their job was not yet done, but she could see they both hungered for the power in that sphere.  
Charle tried to put her doubts aside and focus on the task at hand. But, sadly, this was only a temporary solution for soon enough the 108th fruit of the Divine Tree, the body of the God of destruction began to glow, and then float upwards, further and further into the sky, though it's massive bulk never seemed to dwindle. And there it hung, far away from its captive soul, but still looking bigger than the moon by far, for all to see. A monument to the winglies greatest achievement. They had defeated the God of Destruction, who was meant to purge the world so it could begin anew, before he had even been born.  
Charle marveled at their accomplishment, and could see in her periphery the other winglies likewise staring awestruck. She looked around and just then understood how few of them had truly believed this plan-this insane plan-would actually work. There was such relief.  
Charle felt that relief until she turned around and it became dread. Melbu had already formed a magical link between himself and the sphere; he was now able to draw magical power from the soul of the God of Destruction itself. And close by Faust stared at Melbu, his face a stoic carving, while inside he surely seethed. Until just a few moments ago Faust was the most powerful wingly there had ever been. And now Melbu could crush him, Charle, and every other living thing if he desired to.  
It was then that Charle realized that everyone else was staring at her brother as well. Some fearfully and some with merely a questioning gaze.  
Then Melbu spoke addressing everyone gathered there, his voice so loud it had obviously been enhanced magically. "This is proof. WE were meant to be the gods of this world. No other race could have done this. No other race is powerful enough or smart enough to begin to accomplish this. We were destined to rule. And now we will."  
Now the other winglies were smiling and nodding their heads in agreement. And Charle felt an overwhelming sense of trepidation.


	2. Chapter 2- What Is Born In Battle

Thousands of voices filled the air. Some quiet in conversation, others loud in their jeering, others louder still in cheering. Cheering for blood. Human blood or animal, it didn't matter. To Winglies, the words meant the same thing.

But Diaz wouldn't give them the pleasure of seeing his blood. Or the blood of any of the men who stood behind him. If he could help it.

He forced the noise out. Focusing instead on the steady sound of his breath hitting the metal of his face-guard, and the sound of the men at his back. The sounds of armed and armored men from all of them and the heavy breathing of a man gripped by fear from two of them.

Knowing they were afraid made Diaz worry about what they might do. They were new to his team. Freshly bought to replace his dead friends. Which made them as dangerous as whatever might come out of the gate across the arena.

Diaz didn't know how many years had passed since he had been new and afraid-the only slaves who kept up with time were children and parents. But he had learned what being distracted by fear got you. A bear had nearly torn off his arm, and if not for healing Wingly magic, he would have died. The healing had been like bliss flowing in his veins, and he never wanted to feel that again. Not for anything that came from the Winglies.

The two new men did worry Diaz, but he had three others at his back who had learned to trust him and follow his lead. If only that lesson was one that could be taught outside of battle.

The noise of the crowd died down, as every face turned to look at the throne. From the arena floor, the throne looked like dozens of faraway undulating rainbows. But Diaz's owner had once described it as a massive white circle of white marble with hundreds of veins filled with magically liquefied precious gems. The description was a reward for doing well and winning his master's bets.

The throne was meant to be occupied by the king of the Winglies, Melbu Frahma, who took great pleasure in watching slaves die. In his absence, the magician Faust would speak from the side of the throne before every match. But strangely both Melbu Frahma and the magician Faust had lost interest in the matches, and anything else public, some weeks ago. Now it was some dignitary or another speaking words at the side of the throne before Diaz and his friends were supposed to die for the entertainment of the Winglies.

Whatever the words were, they were lost on Diaz. His whole focus was the sound of his breath, the sound of his men, the feel of his sword, the cool steel of his shield, and the gate across the arena. Out of necessity, that was his world.

The muted buzz became a dull roar, and the gate across the arena opened, letting out two female lions. Diaz felt the instinct to relax and mentally quashed it. Two lions his men could handle, probably without serious injury, unless they relaxed. Relaxation in the arena was death.

The crowd jeered at the reveal of the lions, disappointed at the challenge the humans were facing until an overly loud metallic thud echoed out of the pit behind the lions. The sound was obviously made louder through magic. All a part of the blood show.

From behind the gate came an almost human roar. Followed by the beast from which the roar had come. A minotaur.

Diaz hated minotaurs. He used to feel bad for them. With their gigantic mostly humanoid bodies he had thought they were like the gigantos. Much larger and stronger than humans, but dramatically less intelligent, and forced to fight and die. But minotaurs were far from natural.

The twisted bull-headed race was the product of wingly magic experimentation. One of the few crossbreeds they've managed to make that both lived, and wasn't sterile. But they were nearly mindless, bloodthirsty animals. Impossible to control beyond pointing them in the direction of things you wanted dead.

Diaz felt no pity for the minotaur about to die. All he felt was the worry of a man who respected the strength of his opponent.

Then Diaz heard the tinkling of water hitting metal. And under the circumstances, he knew it wasn't water.

The lions made a wide circle around Diaz's group, one to either side, growling and snarling. One made a slight lunge toward the group, and swiped at the air, fifteen feet away. Then Diaz heard a metallic clang, followed by the sounds of running footsteps, followed by the sounds of a laughing crowd. One of the fools had run, and, almost as dumb, dropped his weapon.

"Edvin, if the fool makes an opportunity, don't miss."

Diaz didn't need the barked "Yes sir!" to know it would be done. Edvin was twice as strong as Diaz, but his real value in a fight was his accuracy with a thrown javelin.

The fool, Eithin might have been his name, ran into the corner of Diaz's vision, still watching the lion on the other side of Diaz's group from him. That is until he heard the other lion roar. Then he turned and raised the shield still attached to his arm.

The lion reared up on her hind legs and swiped at the fool, catching her claws on his shield and wrenching his arm in a seemingly painful way.

Eithin's arm dropped to his side, then he fell to one knee. If he was in pain it didn't last long, as the lion then lunged at his neck with her jaws.

The other lion stared at the fresh kill, then seemed to sprout a four-foot pole from her neck. Edvin had seen his opportunity.

Good. With one lion in its death throes and the other teasing what meat it could from an armored body, they only had to deal with the minotaur for the moment.

The crowd jeered at the quick and unentertaining kill, but Diaz knew any excitement was still to come.

Since the minotaur had stepped into the light it had been swinging its club around wildly, sweeping the ground in front of it so no one could approach. It had probably been blinded by the sudden brightness and had now adjusted to it. It stared at Diaz's group and made guttural sounds.

Diaz smiled, he couldn't help it. Minotaurs were much more dangerous when blind. Their stupidity made them terrible fighters, but their panic when vulnerable made them wildly unpredictable. He hadn't planned on approaching it until it had calmed down, and the timing was almost perfect.

"New meat!" Diaz barked.

"D-Ditlev, sir."

"Right. Stay at the rear and watch the lion. The living one, mind."

"The-the one eating my friend, yes." Ditlev sounded more resigned than bitter. He probably thought he and his friend were doomed to die the moment they were sold to be arena fighters.

"We live now, we mourn later. Listen to me, and you'll get through the first part. Right, men?" Under different circumstances Diaz might have expected ribbing instead of the three man "sir!" he received. No arena fighter felt like joking when another died. Even new meat. Even a fool.

"Harnan on left, Juskin right, Edvin behind me and to the side. Either side, just be ready to get out of the way. Ditlev don't go too far from us, but back up to the far side from the lion." Diaz gave the orders naturally, despite having had to change his plan after the fist lion died.

He heard the men moving about, obeying his orders, and then Harnan and Juskin came into his sight. It was time to lead.

Diaz advanced towards the minotaur, his shield held close to his chest, and his sword pointed at the beast. The beast's elongated hoof pawed the ground, so Diaz ran right at it. It was too early to let the beast charge.

Diaz yelled as he ran at the beast, anything to keep its attention squarely on him. The minotaur gave another roar somewhere between human rage and bestial fury.

The minotaur raised its club over its head, and just as it started to bring it down Diaz dived to the right, calling out "Harnan, arm!" as he did so. As the minotaur's club crashed onto the ground Harnan brought his two-handed sword down onto the beast's arm. Everything about minotaurs was thick, their skin, their muscles, their bones, but Harnan was strong, and his sword was heavy, and it bit deeply into the minotaur's arm. By Diaz's estimate, it hadn't broken bone, but it had at least cut, if not severed, a muscle.

Harnan didn't need an order to know he had to back out of the situation, or that the minotaur would certainly be focused on him. While the minotaur was grunting in pain and turning to try to grab Harnan with its free hand he gave one strong tug on his sword. And when he couldn't fully remove it he let it go and rolled backward, jumping headlong into another roll when he got his feet under him again.

The minotaur grasped empty air, and lost its balance, falling on its hands as Diaz called out, "Juskin, leg!"

With the minotaur's lunge to its right, it's left leg was stretched out making it the perfect target for Juskin's axe.

Many things happened in the following three seconds. The first was Diaz's gamble, calling out "Edvin eye!" hoping that the minotaur, without a more obvious target, would turn its head toward Diaz, giving Edvin an easier shot.

The second was Diaz's gamble paying off, with the minotaur turning its head just as it was supposed to. A perfect target.

The third and fourth things to occur were the things Diaz would never have doubted. Juskin brought his axe down below and behind the creature's knee, and Edvin's javelin took out the creature's left eye.

Diaz and Juskin backed away quickly as the minotaur roared and thrashed about, throwing Harnan's sword free, and ripping out Edvin's javelin. A sickening wet snapping sound came from the minotaur's arm as it swung its club in a wide arc, followed by its club flying away, and its arm going limp beneath the elbow.

"Now, you bastard," Diaz said to the minotaur, right before the minotaur did exactly as he wanted it to. The minotaur lowered its head and charged at Diaz, using its good arm as a third leg for balance while charging.

Diaz waited until the minotaur was very close, almost too close, but that was the only way his plan would work. Diaz had loosened his shield earlier, and now he dropped it altogether and dived to his right. The minotaur's left hoof landed on the shield, and the smooth steel slid on the ground, causing the minotaur to lose its balance, and its left leg to extend behind it, as it fell face-first into the ground.

Diaz's sword wasn't as heavy as Harnan's two-handed sword or Juskin's axe, but Diaz was far from weak, and he brought his sword down, point first, on the minotaur's already wounded leg with both hands. Then he smiled because he knew the sound of bones breaking when he heard it.

The minotaur roared in pain, and Edvin took the opportunity to throw his final javelin into its wide mouth. The minotaur made choking sounds, and thrashed about, before grabbing at the javelin with its one working hand. Too much to hope that it would just die when a normal creature would.

Knowing he stood no chance of extricating his sword and knowing the danger of being this close to a minotaur, Diaz backed away towards where the javelin that had taken the beast's eye had landed, keeping an eye on the minotaur as he went.

The minotaur began struggling to get up, but with its right arm and left leg useless, it did little more than flop to one side. It was then that Juskin and Harnan reached it, bringing their weapons down on its neck from either side. It finally stopped moving.

Diaz ignored the crowd's cheering as he reached the javelin, and Ditlev ran up to him. "Th-that was amazing!" Ditlev said.

"This fight isn't over yet. Don't forget your orders." Diaz turned to see the lion crouched near the body of the fool. Diaz could've sworn he had remembered his name earlier, but now he had no idea what it was.

"Sorry, I just...I think the safest place is near you. Sir," Ditlev said. Diaz collected the javelin, took a deep calming breath, and readied himself to face the last lion.

"The safest place for you is the place I tell you to be," Diaz responded. "I told you at the beginning I'll keep you alive. Now, how long has that lion been crouching there?"

Diaz put no sympathy in his voice; though he did feel a little. The poor guy obviously had no preparation for fighting. But sympathy and training would have to come later. They weren't done surviving yet. At least that's what Diaz believed.

"Only since just before they killed the minotaur," Ditlev said. "She was...she was trying to eat around the armor." Ditlev sounded like he was about to sick up.

The lion suddenly stood and began walking woodenly back to the gate from which it had emerged.

Just then a booming voice announced "No need to waste time on a boring and anticlimactic finale. My winglies, was that fight not entertaining?" He was answered by the crowd's roar of approval. "Did our victors not masterfully earn their victory?" More cheering and applause followed. "Then return victors! Return, so we may prepare for the next fight, and your great overloads may place their bets!"

Diaz looked up at them; the "great overlords." Already they had moved on. Already he and his comrades who had nearly died were forgotten. But Diaz knew he wouldn't forget. He wouldn't forget any of it. Every wingly owed a debt of blood. He didn't know if they'd ever be forced to pay it. But he would remember.

Diaz spat and turned toward the gate. He returned the javelin to Edvin, then Juskin returned to him his sword and shield. Together they walked out of the arena.

For today, Diaz was finished with the arena. But only for today.


	3. Chapter 3- At The Hide

Slaves have no money, nor property. But those owed by the capital city of Kadessa itself, those that kept it running, had a neighborhood to themselves. The buildings were beautiful, everything was beautiful in Kadessa, but they were clearly separated from where the winglies stayed, and in a room where the poorest wingly would sleep alone, five to ten humans would sleep. And, of course, it was well out of sight of wingly traffic, and therefore, a long walk from anywhere a slave needed to be.

But they made this place their own, in one way by clearing out the bottom floor of some buildings. And in these places they gathered, they shared, and they helped alleviate the pains of their life. And these places they called Hides, though no one quite knew why.

One of the things freely shared in these places was a drink they had named sulka. They said it was a drink you couldn't drink until after you drank it. If you weren't used to it, it would burn like fire going down. But it numbed the pain, wits, and the sorrow of living their dreary lives.  
Another drink, not so freely shared, was created from honey, among other things. Honey was hard to come by on Kadessa, especially for a slave. So this drink was saved up for special occasions; A child's welcome to adulthood, and therefore first work assignment, weddings, farewells, and some events in the arena.

Diaz sipped at the honey concoction, called simply hon, stewing over the events of the day. He didn't believe he had done anything to deserve hon today. But his men had insisted he had, the slaves who kept the hon had agreed, and he wasn't going to talk himself out of hon.

And so Diaz sat at this table, with Edvin and Ditlev, sipping hon, while they took quick swallows of sulka.

Harnan walked into Diaz's view, guiding some young woman he had no doubt convinced now was the perfect time for a romp-and who better to romp with than an arena hero-towards the back door. Juskin was sitting at another table, no doubt trying the same thing, but few slaves had finished their duties by now.

Still, places such as this almost always had a few slaves in it. Though for the most part, the slaves here were those worked to the point of collapse in the morning.  
"...truly amazing." Ditlev finished whatever he had been saying. Diaz hadn't been paying attention.

Diaz sighed. He didn't want to deal with the boy, or anything, at the moment. He wanted to drink his unearned hon, and forget the boy, the arena, and...

But how could anyone forget the winglies? Their "great overlords" who tormented them, forced them to die for amusement and likened their very existence to that of an object. And not a particularly useful one, at that.

Ditlev's voice interrupted Diaz's thoughts again. "And not a single injury! Well...I mean, except...you know." Diaz took a deep calming breath before his anger could bubble over onto someone who wasn't responsible for it.

Then Diaz explained the situation to Ditlev. "The only reason there wasn't an injury was because of that boy's death. If one lion hadn't been eating him, and the other distracted by the easy meal not too far away, I promise you, someone would have gotten hurt. Someone probably would have died anyway. Never say we were lucky he died. But his death is a big reason it went so well for us."

Ditlev seemed to deflate at hearing this. Then he, and everyone else, turned toward the door as it opened. It was a slave reflex. No wingly would ever be caught here. But as a slave, you learn to always be aware of your master entering a room because when your owner was near your existence was all about serving him or her.

But no wingly would be caught here. The shame of being seen socializing with property would haunt them forever. Instead, it was Zieg who walked in.

Zieg. The man was more a legend in the arena than Diaz. Zieg was right at six feet tall, same as Diaz, but it was all they had in common in appearance. Where Zieg had honey-colored skin Diaz was more pale, where Zieg had bright blue eyes, Diaz had muddy green eyes, almost brown. And finally, Zieg had blonde hair, to Diaz's dark brown.

But the differences went further than appearance. Zieg had always been impulsive and hotheaded, charging at opponents with abandon. He didn't want to lead or be led.

Diaz could appreciate Zieg's pure skill in fighting. He tore through almost any opponent one on one, even a giganto once, seemingly relying on instinct more than strategy. But Diaz had thought he would be the worst person possible to fight with.

But there had been one occasion their owners, and several dozen others had joined their slaves to fight together. The fight of a century. One hundred humans versus a dragon. Most of the hundred had died that day. But Zieg had fallen in behind Diaz, and they had won the fight; Barely.

Diaz nodded at Zieg, and Zieg nodded back before taking a chair at a nearby table.

After the event with the dragon, Zieg had been sold to the arena. Which meant he would have fought consecutive battles one after the other until he died. But he had kept winning his matches, long past the time anyone thought he could. He had even slain a wingly, the only slave to ever do so. Granted the wingly had been a fool, who thought the arena was a good place to play games with deadly weapons. But most slaves looked past that without a thought.

Zieg had been saved that day when a mystery wingly had purchased him from the arena. And after all, he had done that day, it could not have been cheap. But strangely the wingly had never sent him to the arena again. Many speculated he was used in secret as a trainer or as breeding stock, but Zieg never said who had bought him, or why.

Regardless, since that day whenever Zieg came to a Hide, he sat alone for a time, drinking sulka, before joining someone else. Usually Diaz.

Zieg had never said as much, but Diaz suspected he missed the arena, in some ways. You fought in the arena for the entertainment of the winglies, but surviving each fight was also a small act of defiance for the fighters. You deny the winglies your death and you were, in a very small way, for a very short time, free. Diaz would hate to lose that.

"Ditlev" Diaz surprised himself by saying the name and pulling himself back to the present.

"Have you ever been trained to fight?"

"No," Ditlev replied. "I was used for farming."

Farming. That figures. Bearnard would be upset. But of course, this was probably Diaz's fault.

"Well you'll have to get most of your training in the arena," Diaz told him.

"Just stick close to us and listen to Diaz, kid," Edvin told him. "Oh. And don't die. Do all that and you'll live to be a fine fighter."

Ditlev smiled at what he obviously thought was a joke. "Sounds easy enough."

"It won't be," Diaz said, cutting off the levity. "We'll get you as ready as we can, but you won't be able to sit back and keep watch in future fights. Sooner than you'll like, you'll be forced to fight something. And it won't be easy. It never is."

"You wouldn't know that from watching your fights, Diaz," Zieg spoke from the table just behind Diaz. "Your fight with the minotaur today was inspired. One man dead and not a single injury among the living. Amazing."

"Your owner made you watch the fight?" Diaz said as he turned around. And he immediately wished he could take the words back.

Zieg put on a blank expression and looked at his table. It was an unspoken rule that slaves did not ask each other what they were forced to do. You never knew what another slave might have done, or how they might feel about it.

Zieg looked back up and answered Diaz, "I saw the fight. I almost wish I had been there. I never got to kill a minotaur."

"You would have charged right at it alone," Diaz said. "And that would have been a very different fight."

"And all the more impressive." Zieg retorted.

Diaz put up a hand in surrender. "If anyone could do it, Zieg, I believe you could." Zieg smiled and nodded in satisfaction.

"He can't be that good," Ditlev said disbelievingly.

Zieg then pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked around the table to Ditlev. Zieg placed his hands on the table and leaned in towards Ditlev.

Ditlev glanced at Diaz then Edvin nervously. Diaz hid his smile.

"Boy," Zieg said, pulling Ditlev's attention back to him. "You're right I probably would have died." Then Zieg walked back to his table and sat, taking a swallow of sulka as he did.

As Ditlev took his first breath in about thirty seconds, Edvin and Diaz chuckled. Diaz was surprised he did. He didn't find many moments of levity. Maybe the hon was stronger than he had thought.

"Don't let him fool you," Diaz told Ditlev. "He's a legend in the arena. He once killed a giganto in single combat. A minotaur may be tougher but I wouldn't be surprised to see Zieg win that fight. Of course, I wouldn't be surprised if the minotaur flattened him either."

From behind him, Diaz heard Zieg comment, "You're unwavering faith in my abilities humbles me."

"If he's really that good, then between the two of you we could beat the winglies." As Ditlev said this all the other conversations in the room stopped, and no one moved. It was as if everyone had been stopped in time.

And Diaz knew why it had gone so silent. Slaves died for suggesting anything like what Ditlev had just said. And some slaves had been reported by other slaves.

"Shut up!" Diaz put all the force into his voice that he could while maintaining a whisper. "We couldn't. No one could! And saying things like that could get you, and us, killed!"

Ditlev went red in the face, then started stammering, "I-I didn't...What I mean-"

"Zieg killed one once." Diaz couldn't see the man that had spoken. But whoever had was not being as helpful as he thought he was.

Diaz cut that line of thinking off a quickly as he could. "That wingly was a fool! Most of them are not!"

"An idiot who didn't know what game he was playing." Zieg agreed. But Zieg sounded distracted like his mind was somewhere else.

Diaz knew he needed to stop this conversation now. It was too dangerous for everyone in the room. "We've all seen the wingly magic. They could crush us all without even exerting themselves. And they WILL if they ever even suspect we're talking about this."

Diaz hoped that would end the conversation. But this was where arena fighters, and fans with too much fantasy and not enough sense in their heads, came to drink. And if one thing was true about arena fighters, it was that they didn't give up easily. Damn arena fighters.

"The dragons could match their magic. More than match it. It took over a hundred winglies to subdue the magic of that dragon in the arena. And they're at least smart enough to hate being slaves. And dumb enough for us to control!" This time Diaz turned to see the speaker.

Helmer. The old arena fighter had always had more muscle than brains. Helmer was closer to five feet than six and looked nearly as wide as he was tall. Years of swinging a hammer big enough to cave in someone's chest could do that. The only hair on Helmer's head was his eyebrows, and they were always drawn down, giving him an angry expression. Even while he was singing merrily.

Diaz had fought that dragon. Helmer had not. It was common courtesy among Arena Fighters not to comment on opponents you hadn't fought. And so, Diaz decided to set him straight.

"They are not so dumb as you may think, Helmer. You weren't in the arena that day. That dragon knew our plans and reacted to them. And they would never listen to us. They respect only power. The only one they have ever followed is the Divine Dragon, their King. And he is tightly sealed away by the winglies."

"Not so tightly." Every head turned to Zieg at his pronouncement. He looked left and right once, then continued. " I overheard my owner talking about it with another wingly. The other wingly said he had felt the dragon testing his restraints. Pushing at them magically. He said he was certain the dragon could break free if he tried. They wanted to petition Melbu Frahma to act on the matter. But he was too busy with his latest grand project."

"What project?" The question came from somewhere in the crowd. And all conversation ceased. Zieg didn't look for the source of the high pitched voice, just kept his face pointed at his drink, but he looked hard at Diaz as he did.

Diaz didn't know what to say. This whole conversation was fantasy. Worse it was stupidity.

"What project?" The same voice insisted.

"If you want to know go ask my owner!" Zieg snapped in irritation. "I don't feel like being beaten for minding wingly business."

Helmer spoke up again, "So, we just need to convince the king of-"

"No more!" Diaz roared. Everyone in the room seemed taken aback. More importantly, they were silent. "The only fight will be between me, and the next person who speaks of this."

And then no one said anything. Everyone drank, or stared into their drink, in silence.

And yet, Diaz couldn't stop himself from picturing it. Fighting the winglies. If he had to die, that would be the way he would choose. But he couldn't choose that way for everyone. And most wouldn't even be foolish enough to try it. HE wasn't foolish enough to try it.

And yet...


	4. Chapter 4- The King of All

He felt it again. That sensation...like being frozen in place while moving faster than he ever had before. And for a moment he seemed to be in a vast emptiness with all of time spread out before him. He was infinite.

The moment passed, though it had felt like hours. And Melbu Frahma continued walking without missing a step. At least he thought he didn't. No one looked at him oddly. Not that they would dare look at him oddly even had he missed a step. Whatever the situation they always bowed to Melbu Frahma, king of all.

Melbu continued walking, ignoring most of his winglies, and giving only a slight nod to those elevated enough to feel slighted should he not.

Foolishness, he thought. Wanting to be recognized and honored, when there was important work to be done. He wasn't sure what work. But there was something important that needed to be done.

Melbu's mind had felt foggy recently. Like he was constantly trying to conceive of something, but his mind just wasn't set right yet. Something...itched inside him. Something was off. But what?

Melbu walked along his hallways inside his palace, Nalekadessa, at the center of Kadessa, where only the highest of his winglies could reside. He didn't notice his fanciful cloth draperies, depicting beautiful far off scenes. He didn't see his beautiful statues made from indestructible crystal. Nor did he even glance through the arches he passed, into the center of the palace, where his Crystal Sphere resided.

He could always feel the Sphere. He could feel his connection to it, the connection through which he drew upon its massive magical power, like an extra limb. Something about dwelling upon the Sphere and his connection to it made the itch worse. Like he was almost there. On the verge of solving his biggest problem.

And then it went away. Like smoke through his fingertips. No matter how close he got to the solution, he just couldn't see it. But it was too important to give up on. Whatever it was, he knew that much.

Melbu shook the thoughts away as he arrived at the doors to his rooms. They were the only doors in this particular hallway and the only personal quarters on this floor.

Being the king of winglies, and therefore all things, he had chosen how things were to be ordered in Nalekadessa. The lowest floors were for audiences and the like, above them, were functionary rooms, and then started the residences.

Those nobles who had acquired enough status to be near the king had rooms for two floors above the functionary floors. Then came the king's floor, removed from where the common folk may walk but not so high as to force the king to walk over much. Above this floor was a floor empty of everything, save columns, so none lay directly above the king.

And then for around sixty floors upwards were rooms for hundreds of nobles, all of whom were meaningless to Melbu. One of his few mistakes was making Nalekadessa so large, so grand. The vast majority of it would have been empty and useless without those hundreds of residents.

But now it all just seemed like extra fluff to Melbu. Fluff dressing up his palaces true purpose. Because the whole palace was built in a circle around his Crystal Sphere, and all the innermost rooms looked out on it.

And it was a depiction of the Crystal Sphere that Melbu looked at now. The bottom of his golden doors showed the Crystal Sphere upon a grand pedestal. Above it stood Melbu himself, atop a platform, with his hands upraised. And above him the Moon That Never Set.

The door showed him alone trapping the soul of the god of destruction, and sending its body into the sky. He hadn't been alone. But these doors showed the important parts of the story. The only ones that mattered to Melbu.

Melbu used magic to open the doors. He didn't need to, of course. But using magic, even in small amounts, provided a rush unlike anything else in life. Which was probably why only the winglies had access among the intelligent races. Only the perfect race deserved it. Nevermind that inferior magic the dragons had. There was no way for winglies to harness it, so it must not be very useful.

Not for the first time, Melbu was tempted to rely on his connection to the Crystal Sphere, instead of more conventional magic. The rush from the Sphere was more subtle at first but grew much more intense. And was, therefore, more intoxicating, and dangerous. He forced himself not to rely on it.

As the doors swung open Melbu saw his maids immediately stop cleaning to kneel before him. Well paid, wingly maids. His slaves were not worthy of entering the king's rooms even to clean them. Well, most slaves, Melbu thought.

Melbu Frahma's rooms held some of the grandest treasures that there were to be seen. Statues made of dozens of different materials, some of which it shouldn't have been possible to use in statue making. Tapestries depicting the most beautiful scenes in the world. Every seat was a jeweled throne. Everything chosen by a younger Melbu Frahma, purposed to display his power and influence.

Melbu didn't see any of it. It was a useless background to him now. If he thought about them, he'd probably think what a waste of time it was to acquire it all.

He didn't even notice his windows, magically altered to display a panning view of the city. Or different views of far-off places, should he wish to see them.

"You're dis-" Melbu started, but suddenly the world dropped away and again he was transported to an infinite blackness, dotted with millions of pinpricks of light. Like a world made of nothing but the night sky.

And again, Melbu felt as if he was watching all of time pass by. But the passing time did not touch him. Melbu had used the power of the Crystal Sphere to make himself, as well as others, immortal, indeed he had already lived far longer than he should have. But this sensation was different. He was infinite. He was...

"...missed." He was back. And he lost the feeling. But this time he KNEW. He was on the verge of something important. He had never slipped into that other place twice in so short a time.

As the maids filtered out, he paced the room, trying to remember the sensation. Trying to recall where his thoughts had been going. It was maddening. He was SO close.

He sighed as he hung his head. There was no use. He wouldn't think of the answer. Not now. He had been close. But now he was as far from the answer as ever. But there WAS an answer. He was certain of it.

Melbu clasped his hands behind his back as he headed for one of the many doorways in the room. He moved by rote, his thoughts consumed by a different, but perhaps not unrelated, problem.

As the king of all winglies, and everything over which they ruled, he had only to say the word, and anything he desired was his. The world was quite literally his.

But he wanted nothing that this world could offer. The system he had built ran itself without needing much, or indeed any, help from him. And so he had nothing to strive for. Nothing to want.

He'd had everything worth having already. So what was his purpose? Why should he keep going? Was this the doom of immortals? To run out of reasons to do anything?

It was on that thought that Melbu entered one of his bedrooms. Immortal though he may be, his body still had mortal needs and desires. And those gave him reason enough to do some things. And so he had chosen this room now. A room where thinking was unnecessary.

This room was as unnecessarily lavish as the rest of the rooms on the floor. Beautiful portraits, tapestries, and amazing figures in gold, silver, and amazing gemstones. And, again, Melbu didn't see a single one of them.

His eyes focused immediately on the greatest treasure in the room. One of the few things which still stoked desire within him. Though the why of it sometimes bothered him as much as his other conundrum.

Even he didn't understand why he valued this particular thing so much. Physically she was nearly the opposite of a wingly. Winglies all looked quite similar. And why wouldn't they? When Soa achieved perfection he stopped tweaking.

And yet he still found this creature irresistibly alluring. And she was about as far from perfection as was possible to be. Her hair was the color of a raven, where perfection would have been platinum colored. Her skin was well tanned, whereas a perfect being would remain pale, regardless of how much they were exposed to the sun. And she was tall. Tall enough to look Melbu in the eye. And wingly women, without exception, were shorter than their male counterparts.

But it seemed to be her lack of perfection that appealed to him. Quite the paradox.

But the king of all was allowed paradoxical traits. He was allowed anything and everything. He OWNED anything and everything. He was...

He was floating in an infinite blackness, surrounded by countless pinpricks of light. And all of time flowed by him, without touching him. He barely even noticed it passing. He measured it by the birth and death of hundreds of those tiny lights. But he was infinite. He was...

He WAS... The thought was lost again. And now it was washed away with fury. Three times today. THREE!

Not only was he no closer to the answer, but now he couldn't go an hour of the day without losing his mind to that other place. He had no idea how much time passed while he was there. Sure, he thought it was over in an instant. But how would he know?

He wanted to expel his anger. To destroy everything that lay in his path until he found his answer. But he was old. And such foolishness was the folly of the young.

It was then that he again saw his precious treasure. She looked so uncertain. He had no idea how long he had been standing here. And he remembered that this room was a place where he did not have to think. And that was what he needed right now. Some time without his thoughts.

Melbu smiled at his treasure, in a way that he was sure seemed warm. "Hello, Rose."


	5. Chapter 5- To The Edge

Diaz struck hard, first on the left side then the right. Again and again, he struck left, then right. Until he didn't. Once his opponent had adjusted to the rhythm, Diaz switched direction and stabbed hard at his chest.

Ditlev grunted and fell backward. Diaz thought this kid must have good luck to equal his own bad. If he had faced anything in the arena this green he would have died faster than his friend had. But instead, Diaz had found some little time to train him properly.

A lot of time actually. Bearnard had left his residence for some time, left Kadessa for all his slaves knew. And while he was gone they mostly had free reign. So long, of course, as everything was in order upon his return.

Diaz had already had to beat one slave who had shown up drunk. It was something he had hated to do, but the broken nose now was better than ending up dead from his stupidity later. Especially since nine times out of ten, it would not be just the offender who was affected.

"Fighting is not a dance!" Diaz barked at Ditlev. "If your opponent's attacks are repetitive, if you can predict them for any reason, then you should expect a trap. Never, NEVER, let yourself be drawn into a rhythm. Always be alert for change. And if your opponent tries to lure you into a rhythm, then you strike hard and fast before he tries to surprise you."

"And never fight Diaz," Juskin added, without raising his head off the table where it lay. After the unfortunate conversation at the Hide, he had given up on women and fallen into his drink.

"A lesson you'll illustrate next," Diaz informed Juskin. Juskin responded with a noise that clearly conveyed a lack of enthusiasm. "Maybe you'll learn a lesson about overindulging while we're at it."

Again Juskin contented himself with an unenthusiastic grunt. Diaz wished his drinking and attitude were simply due to his lack of success last night. But he had given up after the conversation.

In fact, after the conversation, many moods had soured. Many of the men and women who frequented that Hide were fighters, and someone had finally said the name of their real enemy out loud. And Diaz had shut them down. He had to shut them down. Many of them knew it, but it didn't make it any easier to swallow.

Diaz walked over to the barrel of water off to the side, Ditlev stepping just behind him. Diaz filled the ladle and took a long drink before passing it to Ditlev. "So you said you were a farmer?"

"Yes. For my whole life. Until I was sold to your owner, I guess." Ditlev responded.

Diaz felt an odd emotion men who fight in the arena shouldn't feel. Something like whimsy, excitement, and hope bundled up together. Edvin spoke up before Diaz could. "What was it like on the ground?"

Edvin had looked up from his book. Most slaves learned to read as children. Most adults didn't care to nurture their ability. No written word could improve their lot in life. Diaz could only read a few human words. He could write the giganto word for blood. Edvin could read three languages. He even knew some wingly script.

Diaz realized Ditlev was looking at his feet confused. "He means on the real ground, boy. Beneath us. Beneath Kadessa." Diaz clarified.

Ditlev just burst out laughing. "You're joking! You guys can't really believe those stories about flying cities, right?"

Edvin laughed a little but he clearly looked disappointed, as well. Diaz interjected, "How did you get here, Ditlev?"

"Um...I spent most of the trip in a big box with a bunch of other humans and a few minitos. I think it was in one of the winglies floating things. But...cities can't float. They're too big." Ditlev looked at Diaz then Edvin, uncertainly. Like he was looking at two madmen.

But Diaz, Edvin, and most of the slaves Diaz knew had been born on Kadessa and had never left. But most had snuck off to the wall at some point. They had seen the world below. And Diaz had to admit it was unbelievable until you saw the truth for yourself.

Edvin started reading again. Juskin finally rose from the table where he sat.

"Well we'll have to go see the edge then," Juskin announced. "You'll see we're not crazy. And I might want to jump." He muttered the last part darkly, with little hint of humor.

"No." Diaz interrupted him. "We're here to train."

Juskin didn't give up. "Well, Ditlev isn't in a shape to keep going. Unless you want to overwork him in training."

"Juskin..." Diaz said warningly.

"And if you really want to punish me you could just force me to fight to the death for the amusement of others." Diaz felt the bitterness in Juskin's voice echoed in his own mind. "Oh wait. Some platinum-haired bastard beat you to it."

Diaz snapped. Juskin was risking more than just his life with that statement. He didn't plan it, he was barely aware of doing it he was so angry, but Diaz threw his practice sword as hard as he could at the wall near Juskin.

The practice sword shattered against the wall, spreading splinters of wood. "If you've lost all care for your own life, fine. But you will not risk ours as well with your thoughtless comments." Diaz said to Juskin quietly, but he knew his rage was conveyed by his tone, calm though it may be.

The room was silent. Juskin looked rightfully ashamed. Suddenly there was a hand gripping Diaz's shoulder. He looked back, his thoughts of a wingly overhearing them taking over, and sending him into a moment of panic.

Edvin. Ever the calm in the storm. Diaz had yet to see him lose his temper. And often he was the one to pull Diaz back if he should go too far. Maybe he had just now.

"Bearnard is gone, for the foreseeable future," Edvin said calmingly. "And it wouldn't hurt for the new man to see his new reality. And Juskin's head needs clearing."

And so does yours, Diaz. Diaz added this last sentence mentally. Edvin looked at him in a manner that implied it well enough. Diaz took a deep breath and nodded firmly.

"Everyone grab a basket filled with something," Diaz instructed. "We'll go to the Edge."

The walk to the Edge, as it was called by the slaves, was quiet and uneventful. From Bearnard's house it was a long walk, and they passed many winglies on the way. But slaves were invisible to winglies unless they were idle. And Diaz and his companions were suitably laden with objects to have the appearance of being about their master's business.

The Edge was a place that wasn't supposed to exist. Or, at least, all the slaves were certain it was an accident. Through a zigzagged, rough sided tunnel in the city wall was a ledge, paved like a walkway and large enough to host a large party.

Diaz hadn't been to this place in years. Not since he was young and untested in the arena. But he remembered that time well.

He had been wearing the rough sackcloth clothing of the menial labor slaves, those meant to not be seen by the winglies. He had stood on the very edge of Kadessa itself. His toes had hung out into the open air.

His mother had just been sold to someone on the ground. His father had been beaten near to death for stalling the sale. He had just hugged her goodbye, and now it was uncertain whether he would live.

Diaz had been so filled with rage and hate, and he had had no idea how to deal with it. There was nothing that could have been done about the winglies. They could obliterate him with a flick of the wrist. He had been consumed with the desire to kill them. But he couldn't fight them and he couldn't run. This place proved that to everyone who came here.

There was only one person Diaz could have killed. There was only one way to run away.

Diaz closed his eyes and felt the wind rushing against his face, just as he had all those years ago. If the wind had but pushed the other way, even lightly, he would have died as free a man as he could ever be.

"Is this how you will dissolve your anguish?" Diaz heard the words from long ago as if they were just uttered again. Diaz kept his eyes closed, and lost himself in the memory.

But the Diaz of long ago had opened his eyes and turned. His cheeks had reddened. He had felt ashamed and angry at being caught here. And more specifically at what he was here to do.

"Would you leave me here alone, denied my only comfort in this world?" Diaz's beloved Anna had asked him. And at those words shame had won out and he had turned away from her.

"I can't hold it in anymore." Diaz had said to her. "If I go back...I'll kill him. I'll try my best and then I'll die. Maybe anyone too close to me too. I'm stuck, Anna. I can't die to one of them. But how can I live like this?" Diaz knew he hadn't explained himself well. But Anna had understood.

She had wrapped her arms around him. "With me. We live through it together."

Diaz treasured this memory. He no longer missed Anna. If he did he could have visited her anytime. But that had been the last time he had felt any semblance of peace outside of the arena.

It was shortly after that day that Diaz was sold to a master who sent him into the arena. He had been meant to die fighting kobolds, grotesque and tiny creatures with sharp claws, fangs, and little horns.

But Diaz had killed the kobolds instead. And in doing so he had committed his first act of rebellion against the winglies. And that granted him a feeling he couldn't give up. Since that first fight, he had loved the arena more than he could love anything else.

But Anna couldn't love that side of him. He needed to fight something to feel right. He had to kill to live the life of a slave. He could hardly blame anyone for walking away from someone steeped in that kind of anger.

Diaz was drawn from his deep thoughts by a sharp "careful!" He looked up to see Edvin holding Ditlev by the shoulder, as they stood near the edge. There was a spot of water under Ditlev's feet. The boy's general foolishness filled in the blanks for Diaz.

Juskin seemed to have come back to himself, at least somewhat. His shoes and pants were laid to the side, and he sat with bare legs over the Edge of the World. The only world he had ever known at least.

"You wouldn't be the first to think of jumping for freedom," Juskin said to Ditlev. "But this is enough for me." He swung his legs back and forth. "For now at least."

"I wasn't going to jump!" Ditlev said sharply. "I'm strong enough to survive this life."

"Do not judge a man weak," Diaz interjected, "unless you have lived all his troubles yourself." Ditlev seemed uneasy. He believed what he believed. He also seemed to respect Diaz enough not to argue. Or maybe feared him. Maybe both.

"But I will agree," Diaz added, "that jumping is not a good solution. It feels too much like letting the winglies win. And I intend to beat them."

Ditlev and Juskin looked at Diaz hard, and Edvin cautiously, at that last statement.

"Not like that." Diaz clarified. "We beat them by surviving the arena. We don't let this life we've been given break us." Diaz imagined two of his three companions were disappointed at that. But he couldn't look at them to tell.

Diaz's eyes were fixed on the ground. Large swaths of green and yellow flatlands, mixed with a few trees and the occasional farm, rolled by beneath them.

But whatever it costs me I will die on the ground, Diaz thought but was careful not to say aloud. There was no telling how his present company might take it. But he was now determined that he would make it to the ground. Someday. Somehow.

Just then Ditlev took a butter knife from his pack and threw it over the edge. All four men watched the knife as it dwindled to nothing. There was no telling where, or precisely when it landed.

"Soa willing that hits a wingly," Ditlev said angrily.

Juskin laughed, then spit over the edge. "Maybe the Creator will let that hit his friend."

"You just stabbed and spit on a couple of trees," Diaz told them. "Pick up your bundles. When Bearnard gets back we'll have another match, no doubt about it. And I don't want to watch another one of my men die."

Juskin stood up but stayed at the Edge. "I'll catch you up in a bit." He adjusted his smallclothes at the front, then twisted around. "Just in case." He said with a wink.

Ditlev and Edvin watched Diaz warily as he walked over to Juskin. He heard them laugh as he stood beside Juskin, saying "Just in case." Then he too relieved himself over the Edge.

Diaz didn't believe that Soa cared about humans if he existed at all. How could he care and leave them to their lot? But just the idea of a group of winglies having the worst day of their lives made him smile.


	6. Chapter 6- Dreams

Ditlev lied on his mat smiling widely. He could barely keep from squirming. His bruises hurt! And his arms felt like jelly. But his spirits were still quite high.

Laying there, he ran through the day's events in his head over and over again. He was learning to fight! And to really fight, not the play fighting he and his friends had done with farming tools. But actual fighting, like Diaz!

Ditlev had been in awe of Diaz ever since the minotaur had died. And the other slaves spoke of him as if he could ride the winds, and slay dragons single-handedly.

And Diaz had called him one of his men! Ditlev had never felt such exhilaration! He was learning from a living legend. And one day maybe he would be one too.

He was so consumed with the idea of becoming the next legend that the fact he was in an entire city that could fly barely crossed his mind. Compared to the amazing story he somehow found himself living, the fact seemed nothing to him.

And so Ditlev lay there, imagining his future heroics. He saw himself fighting mighty creature street fearsome beast. And none survived his sword.

And if Diaz would not lead the humans to their freedom, perhaps his student could. Ditlev told himself it was a foolish thought, but deep in his heart, that dream took hold. And dreams never die easily.

Diaz drifted in and out of full awareness. He couldn't tell if he had actually fallen asleep at any point. But he sometimes lost control of his thoughts in the way of dreams.

His thoughts swirled around three topics. The ground, the men willing to follow him, and the certain death of defying the winglies.

Diaz thought back to the time Zieg had fought a wingly in the arena. The wingly had been quite drunk, and still he had tossed Zieg about as if he had been nothing. He had hurled Zieg through the air, dozens of feet across the ground, all as if it were nothing to him. Zieg had only killed him because he showboated much too long, and brought Zieg too close to himself.

One on one, or even two or three on one, humans stood no chance against that. His only hope of ever seeing the ground was...He couldn't think of one.

Stealth wouldn't work. He might make it to one of the conveyances, at the city's walls. But they were worked and guarded by winglies. Diaz didn't even know if they would operate without active magic.

The only other way was subterfuge. When Bearnard left the city he did take a personal valet. But he would never take one of his fighters as a valet.

His thoughts went from strategizing to imagining these scenarios. In the thoughts he was sure were the beginnings of dreams he would fall into the shadows. The winglies had caught him and sucked him through the shadows, and into the arena, where he was chopped apart by minotaurs with giant axes.

Or sometimes in these dreamlike moments, he would suddenly be surrounded by winglies, who would then casually toss fireballs at him.

But in one dream they threw him into a dark pit, where he landed on something soft enough to cushion his fall. Before he could wonder what it had been, he shot up out of the pit and over the city. It was at this point he would realize he was riding a dragon.

Diaz would snap back to full awareness whenever that dream let him to the clouds where his closest comrades also rode dragons to freedom. It was the most ridiculous dream he had ever had. A child's wild fancy.

Diaz turned over, dismissing the thoughts. Instead, he turned his attention to a modified version of a technique he used before a fight.

Diaz closed his eyes, then slowly clenched and relaxed his muscles, one by one, starting at his neck and working down. As he did so he also mentally listed every opponent that had scarred him in the arena. He had done so many times, he never let himself forget a mistake, and knew the list by rote.

Thus, did Diaz fall into a nearly thoughtless trance. And from there lulled himself into a dreamless sleep.

Rose sat on a balcony overlooking the city. The balcony was illuminated by the city lights below, and the light of the full moon above.

She often wondered how much the Moon's light would show were it unaided by the cities lights. It was her fondest wish to be in a place with no light but the moon and stars, at least once before she died.

Rose sat on the floor of the balcony, with her back to the wall. She ignored the exotic plants, and lavish chairs and tables available, all of which were distinguishable, even easily visible in the light.

Rose laid her head back against the wall. She had spent so many nights out here. Many of them standing, or sitting, on the balcony railing. She had thought so many times of jumping that sometimes she even dreamed of it.

But buried deep in her mind was a hope she couldn't smother. The idea that it could all get better. That insane, impossible idea.

Rose thought back to her mother. Rose hadn't seen her since she had been bought by Melbu Frahma several years ago. But her mother had told her how miserable her life had been before Aindreas bought her.

Rose began to cry silently. There was no Aindreas in her future. No being, be they merciful or evil, could take her away from the wingly king.

Like so many nights before this one, Rose fell asleep on the stone balcony, with nothing but the silken robe she wore for comfort. Though to Rose, the fine silk felt like iron chains.

But in her dreams, Rose was free of her chains, free of her horrid life. In her dream, Rose had the courage, the strength, to leap from the balcony.

But she didn't leap down. She jumped up and flew into the heavens. And there she danced in the darkness between the stars, illuminated only by the stars that she passed.

Zieg's chest heaved, and he leaned heavily on his wooden sword. He had worked himself until his wooden weapon felt heavier than one made from steel.

He looked at the practice dummies surrounding him. The one which had been knocked over had already righted itself, the imbued magic forcing it to be ready. For now though, they all lay motionless, waiting for Zieg's raised sword to begin moving again.

But Zieg's energy was spent. Every time he came down here to practice he fought harder, longer, desperately trying to scratch the itch inside him. But this wasn't enough. It never would be. He understood that now.

He walked to one wall and set his wooden sword on its rack. The several weapon racks in this room were obviously out of place. The expensive wood paneling had been damaged by their installation.

It struck Zieg again how out of place he was. How he found himself here, in a place where even the basements were finely decorated.

"Dinner will be starting soon." Zieg wasn't surprised by the male voice coming from the staircase. He had heard the man coming but had hoped not to hear from him.

"I don't care," Zieg informed him.

"The mistress would like you to dine with us." Clyde insisted.

"Saying mistress instead of master makes you no less a slave," Zieg sneered.

"Here you are only a slave in your own mind," Clyde retorted. This place was enough for Clyde. But Zieg was different. He could never be happy here.

"The mistress has done you a great favor in animating those...things," Clyde glanced disdainfully at the training mannequins. "You should show some respect, and gratitude before she undoes that favor."

"Then it would be unwise of you to come down here," Zieg retorted coldly. "Unless you wish to take their place in my training. Because she promised me this space for just that, and we both know she doesn't go back on her word."

Clyde huffed, then turned and left. Doubtless, he had come, not at his master's bidding, but on his own to bring her what she wished; Zieg's presence, as well as some sign of his contentment here. Zieg had none to show.

But Zieg knew he would attend their dinner tonight. He did owe her that much. Though she wouldn't undo the magic she had done for him. For some unknowable reason, that insane wingly valued Zieg's happiness.

Zieg scoffed mentally. Happiness. He could never feel that here. The closest he had come to that feeling since childhood was in the arena. And even then he just lost himself in the thrill of battle, just felt the temporary joy of proving himself superior to his foes.

He looked at a different wall, where his real weapon hung. True happiness or not, he dreamed of nothing so much as one day returning to battle. It was where he belonged.


	7. Chapter 7- Judgement

The streets of Kadessa had been designed to be completely symmetrical. But from district to district they could not have been more disparate.

The winglies had a hard belief in separation. Separation of the races, and of their own activities. And so the Business District, where the Grand Market was located, seemed alive with every possible idea of commerce. Winglies shouted to passersby about their wares or unique magical inventions from perches reachable only by flight.

The Recreation District, where the arena could be found, was most often even more lively, though with a far different energy. And much like the Business District, the sites truly worth seeing were inaccessible to all but the winglies.

In contrast to those two districts, the Diplomatic District was subdued, almost somber. It was the entryway into the city, as well as the temporary home to all visitors, be they vacationers, or visiting dignitaries.

This was perhaps the longest time Diaz had spent in this particular district. Humans really had no reason to be here other to accompany a visiting wingly.

When Bearnard had instructed Diaz to accompany him, he had nearly jumped in shock. It was not an order he had ever been given before. And it had been just a few nights before Diaz had dreamt of using such an order to run away.

But that ridiculous plan had been based on them leaving the city. And they were merely traveling to an embassy house for one of the other great cities. Besides which Bernard could never have guessed at Diaz's errant thoughts. It had all just been a startling coincidence.

Diaz heeled Bearnard like a faithful dog. And that's what he felt like. A heeling dog.

And it wasn't easy to keep up. Anytime winglies came upon an obstacle they simply extended their wings of light, for which their race was named, and flew over it. So Diaz was left to dart around carts carrying supplies, large crowds, and once a building as Bearnard cut a corner.

They then passed a site that told Diaz they were nearing the edge of the city. He had never been here before but he knew exactly where it was on the map. In his youth, he had often wanted to come to see it. But it was unwise for slaves to linger here, and no one would take him. Then he had grown old enough to know it wasn't worth the hassle.

The area defining landmark which grabbed his attention so thoroughly seemed no more than a particularly large hole in the ground, sized to mirror the arena in the opposite side of the city. There was a waist-high railing around the whole. The railing seemed to be made of metal, but also looked carved to resemble a long chain of dragons, each biting the tail of the dragon in front of it.

At first glance, the only remarkable thing about the site was that the railing floated, unsupported by anything the eye could see. And the Diaz had never been here, he knew what lay within the hole.

Standing here, so close, he felt the old childish wonder spark within him. And something new as well. A ridiculous hope he quashed within himself. With difficulty he tore his eyes away, returning to his current task, heeling his master.

Diaz had fallen behind while feeling like a fool. Luckily Bearnard was standing in front of a building, staring up at it's facing, seemingly unaware of Diaz's failure to keep up. Diaz hurried to his side.

"...the least of the great cities, but it still bears the honor of flight." Bearnard was saying as Diaz approached. Of course, he hadn't noticed. He had assumed Diaz was just behind him, and done what he loved most; talk.

"Much of the city is actually autonomous, it's caretakers and workers running primarily..." Bearnard continued speaking but Diaz tuned him out. He focused instead on the building ahead, apparently their destination.

There were a handful of steps leading up to massive fluted columns, which supported a triangular section of the roof. In the center of the triangle was a golden circle, depicting what seemed to be a robed being made from triangles. In the place of the beings arms were two wings. At the bottom of the triangle in large silver letters was the word ZENEBATOS.

Zenebatos, the city of lies. The winglies considered it the law city. The city's purpose was to design and enforce laws. But these laws only applied to the enslaved races.

Here, on Kadessa, things were very simple. The law was whatever the winglies told you to do. But it was Diaz's understanding that the ground was much different.

The enslaved races were far too numerous to control directly. They had outnumbered the winglies a hundred to one before their enslavement, and since the enslaved numbers had multiplied, but the winglies weren't such prolific breeders.

This was why Zenebatos existed. It created oppressive laws, identified slaves who broke it, and then brought them to "justice" so even the most isolated slaves would know they were owned.

This alabaster building was just another of the many symbols of wingly evil. And Diaz couldn't think of a single reason for Bearnard to bring him here.

"But of course you're wondering why I've brought you here." Bearnard's words brought Diaz's attention back to his owner and made his cheek twitch.

A man less in control of himself probably would have jumped. It had certainly taken a conscious effort on Diaz's part not to. Far too often lately, it had seemed like his thoughts were being spoken aloud by another.

"And who wouldn't be?" Bearnard continued. "Come inside. I've something important to show you." And with that, he started towards the door.

Diaz had no choice but to follow. He had no idea what was waiting for him, and no way to figure it out other than to walk right into it. He didn't bother guessing. He just focused on what was.

Diaz was surprised to see that there was no door. In the center of the front of the building was a solid square of glass, which Bearnard walked up to confidently. As he got to the glass square a rectangular section, only slightly larger than Bearnard, seemed to melt away. As Diaz drew near a similar section melted away, just as the other section replaced itself behind Bearnard.

Past the odd door was a large semicircular room, with a circle of fluted columns very similar to the ones outside. Past the fluted columns was a wall with nine doors equidistant from one another. On the floor was an image of the triangular being, which seemed to be made of light. When Diaz looked up, he saw that the columns supported a circular balcony, which appeared to have its own ring of columns supporting another balcony. Beyond this second balcony was the ceiling, a portion of which was made up of colored glass, which depicted the triangular figure. The colored glass explained the same figure made of light on the floor.

As Bearnard got to the center of the room, he gestured at the floor. "The Law City certainly loves their Judge Nomos," he said. "Created by Eustathius Leventis, he is the most complex construct ever created. It's Nomos who runs Zenebatos, and he's the reason so few winglies are needed there. Most of the residents there-" Bearnard continued talking as he flew to the second floor, picking Diaz up and carrying him along with his magic.

As he was lifted Diaz closed his eyes, shivered, and focused on ignoring the useless facts Bearnard insisted on droning on about. He opened his eyes as he was dropped onto the second floor. Bearnard was still going on about "grandsons," and "the constructs." Diaz could only block out so much.

As Diaz looked around he saw that the second floor was identical to the first, except of course for the circular hole in the floor. Even the glass square was the same. Even the view through the glass square was the same. At first, Diaz noted this detail absently. Then he felt his stomach do backflips, and his brain start twirling in circles. He was certainly on the second floor, but through the glass square were the white stone tiles and stairs he had walked across to enter the building.

Diaz turned away from that wall, took a deep breath, and tried to steady himself. Bearnard had started walking toward one of the doors, talking about his travels among the great wingly cities. As Diaz moved to follow he had to focus on not stumbling. He focused on what was ahead, trying not to think about the impossibility and his own dizziness.

As Diaz walked he calmed himself by imagining a fight breaking out right in front of him. Armed men coming from behind the columns, and vicious kobolds coming out of the doorways. Planning how he would respond to different scenarios helped to calm his mind, and forget the nauseating thing he refused to think of.

After Diaz walked through the door it swung shut on its own, and he felt a good bit better. They had entered a short hallway with door interspersed along both walls. Above each door were characters in wingly script. Halfway down the hallway were two winglies in the middle of a conversation. They wore odd robes Diaz hadn't seem anywhere else in Kadessa. As Diaz and Bearnard approached a third wingly emerged from a doorway, gestured at the other two, and together they disappeared behind a different door into another room.

Bearnard walked up to the last door in the hallway, the one on the far wall. He twitched a finger, and the door swung open. As Diaz walked through it, he emerged into a surprisingly bare room. The room was just four white walls, a ceiling, and a floor. It contained only several chairs, separated into random groups. The only light source seemed to be the walls themselves.

There were a few winglies sitting around the room in different groups. Some wore the same odd robes as the winglies in the hall, while others wore garb more typical of the capital city.

Bearnard walked up to a group of only two chairs and sat down. Diaz approached and stood to his side.

Bearnard turned his head a fraction and said, "Sit."

Diaz did as instructed, and they sat in silence for several minutes. As the minutes pass Diaz was tempted to look around, but he had seen the whole room, and there was nothing to see. He vaguely heard the other winglies conversations, but they spoke quietly and he couldn't make out specific words.

Then, suddenly, the walls turned pitch black, and the indistinct conversations cut off abruptly. Diaz glanced around, and the other chairs and winglies were gone. He could see nothing but blackness and the still illuminated hallway. Looking at the hallway now made him uneasy, as the light from it seemingly couldn't pass through the doorway.

"We're alone again," Bernard said, breaking the silence. "Our surroundings are about to change again," he continued. "Please do not be alarmed. What's about to happen may be a bit much for the less intelligent races but remain calm it is illusion only."

As he finished speaking their surroundings changed again. Their chairs now sat upon the bottom floor of what seemed to be an arena. At least it looked quite similar to the arena Diaz always fought in. Though only in shape.

Where Diaz fought there was only a dirt floor, but the one currently under his feet was made of small white paving stones. Hundreds of them. The stands were much smaller with individual chairs and couldn't have seated half so many as the arena on Kadessa. And in the place of the great throne was a counter behind which sat five figures. The one in the middle was raised a little higher than the others.

Diaz then realized the figure in the middle was the triangular robed figure he had seen depicted on the outside of the building. The being looked quite intimidating raised high and dressed in the deepest black Diaz had ever seen. Like this thing had robbed death itself for clothing.

Diaz considered that he might have been brought here for some kind of trial and immediately dismissed the idea. Bearnard would handle such matters himself. Diaz had been brought here to witness something. So he leaned back, folded his arms, and waited to bear witness.

Suddenly a man walked by Diaz. He looked to be a man somewhere between his youth and his middle years, and seem to be a generally healthy and strong person. Though it appeared the past few days had been rough on him, and he was worse for the wear. He was about Diaz's height, fair-haired, and well-muscled.

Diaz could tell from the way he moved that he wasn't a fighter. So what would bring such an unremarkable nonfighter into an arena?

"The accused?" Nomos asked.

"Human farmer," the smaller white-robed figure directly to Nomos' right answered.

"Accused of insufficient crop production. Section 12. Law 854," confined another one.

"Accused is guilty," Nomos declared. "Does it have final words?"

The man in front of Diaz fell to his knees. When he spoke it was clear he was a broken man pleading for his life. "Please! Judge Nomos, sir, the hail destroyed so many plants this year. There was nothing I could do! My family has produced so well in the past and we can do better! Please, sir, another chance-"

"Silence!" Nomos interrupted him. "I am the Justice. My voice is the truth. Your guilt is fact. Prepare for your trial."

"I thought," the man began.

"Silence," Nomos said calmly. "Your trial begins."

"This," Bearnard said, "is why we are here. Watch carefully and learn what you can."

Diaz watched, with a mixture of confusion and anger. Hadn't that ridiculous sham been the trial?

Then a door across the small arena opened, admitting three of the oddest creatures Diaz had ever seen.

The first seemed to be an albino giganto, the first Diaz had ever seen. But the thing had tiny feathered wings on it's back, like it had cut them off a dove and attached the things to its own back.

The second could have been a wingly, except for its unnaturally gray skin and black feathered wings where winglies' wings were composed of light. This one dragged behind it a large black scythe.

The third creature was by far the most deformed. Six white wings grew from her back, but at odd angles, as if she had been designed to be as asymmetrical as possible. That she moved her arms Diaz realize that they too ended in tiny wings. The sight made Diaz feel ill.

"Do not be distracted by their hideous appearances," Bearnard said. "In the early days of the empire, there were almost no rules for winglies. These disgusting creatures were the early attempts at combining wingly and non-wingly."

Diaz realized he had let his jaw drop and sat for several moments with his mouth open. He rarely forgot himself so, but this has been the most disturbing information he had yet received. "You mean this is what happens if humans and winglies breed?"

"What?" Now Bearnard sounded disgusted. "Of course not! No wingly has ever been that disturbed. These were merely the attempt to turn the unborn of the lesser races into something greater."

Now Diaz felt nothing but sympathy for the poor beasts. Tortured even before birth, then forced to serve here.

And Diaz now saw what a gruesome service that was. The many winged one apparently had access to magic, because she threw feathers at the man, and the flew like arrows. Where they stabbed into the man, who had begun to flee, his limbs turned black, like something overcooked, and fell limp.

The one with black wings just turned around at this point and started walking away, while the once giganto leaped upon the small man, who had begun whimpering pitifully. The large man grabbed the farmer by one thigh and his chest, then proceeded to literally rip him in half.

Diaz felt completely lost as the large monster and the one with too many wings turned back to the door. What was this horrible place, and why would Bearnard want him to witness this? As far as he knew Diaz was a dutiful and loyal slave, so why?

"Is...is that everything," Diaz asked. He was eager to leave, eager to forget all of this.

"Oh no," Bearnard answered. "You'll be spending all day here. This was the first trial of the day, and the trials run until sunset.

"But of course, you're wondering why. Who wouldn't be?" For once Diaz felt no inclination to tune out Bearnard's ramblings. "You see, centuries ago, when these abominations were first created, they were immediately slated for destruction. However, some fool somehow convinced the powers that be it would be better to use them as executioners.

"These three, Sellebus, Vector, and whatever silly name they gave the third one, have since been allowed to exist, albeit mostly in a form of stasis. And they have served their grizzly purpose since and entertained the winglies of Zenebatos.

"But lately there has been a common-sense movement to make the swap to more conventional methods of execution. Everyone feels that this," Bearnard gestured vaguely, "has become nothing more than a rather boring version of the arena." He scoffed quietly. "Even Zenebatos' citizens don't show up anymore.

"So what to do with these now useless executioners?" Bearnard had an evil-looking grin on his face. "They'd be perfect for the real arena. I didn't come up with the idea, but I've been pulling every string I have to pull to get the votes to make it happen.

"Which brings me, obviously, to why you are here. You will observe them, all day, day after day, if necessary until you know how they fight better than they do. You will then tell me how you would fight- no, how you would kill them in an arena fight. Then I can begin planning your fights between then and now."

Now Bearnard just smiled at Diaz smugly. Diaz was certain he was torn between keeping his thoughts to himself and feeling superior and indulging in his favorite habit, talking.

"Of course, sir," Diaz said, purposely sounding confused. He truly was a little confused by Bearnard's comments, but he was smart enough not to let what he was feeling show so obviously.

Bearnard's smile deepened. He was clearly glad to confuse someone he considered beneath him. "Very good," Bearnard said, standing. "I'll leave you to it."

True to his word, Bearnard left.  
Diaz turned to watch him go. The hallway was still visible behind him, though it seemed to open from thin air. The moment Bearnard stepped into it his form became fuzzy, and within a few steps, Diaz couldn't see him at all.

Diaz had grown up on Kadessa, and so had grown up around magic. But such impossibilities always made him feel unsettled. To him, it just seemed more proof of the winglies evil. Their magic seemed to break the world itself.

When he turned back around he saw that another trial had already commenced. This time some poor bastard was accused of being the third in his family to learn the same trade. A brand new law, it would seem.

Diaz mentally steeled himself. He had a lot of murder to watch.

Melbu Frahma was a distant name. A temporary, and increasingly useless shell.

He flew, far from that small body with its many limitations, through endless blackness dotted with countless specks of light. As the night sky swirled around him stars died and stars were born.

But time did but touch him. He was infinite. He was... God.

Melbu awoke from his trance, certain it was the last one he would experience. He had finally learned what his own mind had been trying to tell him.

He embraced his own magic, without the slightest consideration for the insignificant wingly magic within him. Flooded with his magic, the last vestiges of his mental journey faded, and his attention fully returned to the present.

He lay on one of his beds in his rooms, and Rose sat atop him. But what had once been pleasant distraction was now only annoyance. Using his magic, Melbu tossed her aside, ignoring the snapping sound he heard. There was nothing in this room of any value to him.

Without looking he used his magic to clothe himself, without looking at what was grabbed. To him, clothing was nothing but a means to fit in among his mortals, now.

He left his room of "valuables" behind for the last time. Gods didn't need such things.


	8. Chapter 8- Trials

Rose had struck the wall hard. She had heard more than felt something inside her snapping. All she remembered was a single moment of confusion as she flew through the air, then the moment when she hit the wall, the snapping, then she had been lying near the middle of the floor.

At first, she had thought she was fine, but when she tried to get up her right arm crumpled, refusing to hold her weight. She raised her arm and saw her hand hanging limp as if it were a cloth bag filled with mush. It was only then that she realized she could feel it no more than if it hadn't been there at all. Half her right side felt like it wasn't even there anymore.

She felt like she was lying on an unbalanced table tottering from side to side. Blackness crept in from the edges of her vision. She hadn't been strong enough to jump earlier, but now it seemed her lack of strength made the jump for her. She coughed a laugh at the thought, then the blackness closed in.

Diaz walked along one of the curving roads of Kadessa, having left the Zenebatos embassy some time ago. The sun hadn't set and looked to have been higher at Zenebatos, but he couldn't take sitting there any longer.

He had seen a woman murdered for having too many children, a young man for having no job or land to inherit that would benefit the winglies, and a whole family for residing on too small a plot of land. The only person found innocent throughout the day was the neighbor of the family, who had been gifted the family's land so he would not be guilty of the same crime. He already had a trial set next year for under-producing for his land size, just in case.

The whole thing had made Diaz sick. So much so that he almost barged through the odd glass door without even thinking of it. He'd only been stopped by a translucent wingly walking towards the door. But when the wingly had reached the door he disappeared and reappeared walking away from the door and completely opaque.

Diaz didn't like thinking about the impossibilities of that door. Luckily for him, the rage he felt about the "trials" he had witnessed drove all thoughts of that door from his mind.

He stopped at an empty corner, taking deep breaths to help quiet his mind. Rage was worse than useless in most situations. Rage was actively harmful. He needed a clear mind for what was to come. He had to admit that it was rage that set his path, but in order to walk it, he must be calm.

He looked at the seemingly endless crowds of people streaming by. He sometimes wondered how so many people, winglies and slaves both, could be found on nearly every street at nearly any time of day. Kadessa was a large and fully occupied city, but its residences were certainly not overcrowded. And yet the endless throngs of people it seemed to imply its population was just that, endless.

Diaz considered this idle thought purposefully. It wasn't important, but focusing on this idle thought helped him move past his anger. After he calmed, he returned to the task at hand.

He stared into the open plaza he had been more or less circling since leaving the embassy. Many winglies walked by, paying as little attention to the large hole, or the railing that ringed it, as anything else in their surroundings. But occasionally one might hesitate in their stride and glance down as if confused by something unseen. Those very few would usually shake their heads, then continue walking, usually a little faster than they have been.

Diaz had stared into this plaza from an intersecting street three times so far. This time he saw a break in the crowd large enough to make his move, and he didn't hesitate. Diaz didn't rush, but he also didn't dawdle. He moved at a measured pace. He was a slave about his normal duties, nothing more.

As Diaz drew close to the waist-high railing he noticed something odd about the railing. His clothes were a simple rough tan material, but as he walked by each dragon in the metal railing, it reflected the color oddly, turning it into a burnished gold color. Catching the light so, each one almost seemed to be a living golden dragon. And each seemed to breathe golden fire that became the next dragon in the chain.

A little ahead of Diaz walked wingly in the voluminous clothing so preferred by his kind. The clothing was a dark blue, almost purple, but reflected in the strange metal as a light blue, and as he passed the dragons seem to breathe jets of water instead of fire. Diaz rolled his eyes. Even their bloody handrails were imbued with magic. He knew it couldn't run out, that was ridiculous, but they still seemed a waste.

Diaz came to the head of a curving staircase. For a wonder, there was no ornamentation here, just a short gap where the railing turned inward and sloped down with the stairs. The stairs curved sharply and soon ran into the wall a little below and to the side of where they began.

Where the railings met the wall at the very edge of a tunnel metal seamlessly became carved stone, the last dragons in the chain -back half metal and front half stone- seeming to take flight. The carvings continued along the walls, and even onto the ceiling of the tunnel. Diaz ignored the carvings, instead of devoting his attention to looking and listening for someone else who might come along.

Diaz walked along the tunnel for several minutes, longer than he would have thought he would have had to. As the minutes stretched he realized he would have heard anyone else from a long way off. Of course, that meant they would have heard him as well, but there was nothing he could do about that.

As Diaz walked he began to relax. He remained wary of anyone approaching, but he was already here and he had no excuse for it. The realization that he could do nothing if caught brought with it a certain kind of peace of mind. Why worry when all you had was a foregone conclusion?

As he relaxed he began to look around at the carvings. It all seemed to be carved out of a single piece of rock, but the color of the rock changed as if it were really a painting. However, Diaz could see no seams where a different kind of rock had been inlaid.

At first, Diaz thought the carvings depicted a battle. A one-sided battle from the looks of it. With the dragons flying and darting around the winglies, and throwing all manner of attacks with no return fire from the winglies. But then something and Diaz couldn't quite point out what it was, made him realize that what was depicted was the dragons being trained. The winglies gestured and commanded, and the dragons flew, somersaulted, and summoned great magics for their trainers.

Diaz wondered if this was a false history or a very poor prediction of the future. It had become common knowledge the dragons would not, maybe even could not, be made to obey the winglies. It was even said that some dragons had died during the winglies attempts to tame them, the winglies pushing harder and harder for obedience, and the dragon's body breaking before it's will.

"They would not imprison the king of tame beasts," Diaz said aloud, quoting Edvin. He wished Edvin was here. Edvin would be far better than he at what must be done. Although it might be easier if no one was around to witness how dumb his idea was.

Diaz stopped walking and looked around himself confused. Suddenly he wasn't in the tunnel anymore. To his left and right stretched a slightly curving hallway, simple and undecorated. He looked back the way he had come. The exit of the tunnel was quite ornate, a grand doorway carved from marble, but somehow he hadn't noticed leaving the tunnel. He then realized why. The entire stretch of the tunnel had been just as bright as the streets of Kadessa, which were still illuminated by the sun.

"Wasteful," he muttered to himself, feeling irritated again about the ridiculous ways winglies used their magic. Perhaps you're just bitter that they have it at all, a small voice said in his head. He wasn't a man to shy away from his failings, but it was hard to admit that when he cast the winglies as the ultimate evil in every conceivable situation he was sometimes wrong.

He rubbed his forehead with his knuckles, then shook his head. He couldn't let himself be distracted now. He straightened himself, held his head high, and strode forward determinedly, ignoring the hallways to his left and right, instead taking the one directly in front of him. It was only a dozen paces long and seemed to open onto a large open platform.

When Diaz first stepped out onto the platform he nearly stumbled. He caught himself, but then he felt as if all his muscles had suddenly turned to stone. He couldn't have moved if someone were casually strolling over to him with a knife to stab him in the neck.

He couldn't see his surroundings at this point. He could see nothing but the largest mass of living flesh he had ever laid eyes on. Although perhaps living flesh wasn't the right term. Gigantic grayish scales made up most of what he could see, most large enough for him to have stood upon.

The body of the beast before him would have been the same as any other four-legged animal if it weren't for the serpentine neck and tail, as well as the eight wings sprouting from it's back. Add to that the fact that a large building could easily have fit within its chest and Diaz felt ridiculous for comparing this thing to anything normal.

Diaz had known something of what to expect here, but the reality of the Divine Dragon, the great Dragon King, was far grander than expectations could ever meet, or words could ever describe.

Diaz gasped and only then realized he had been holding his breath. That gasp seemed to loosen his muscles, and he straightened himself, embarrassed.

He walked to the end of the platform where the Divine Dragon's head hung only a couple of dozen paces away. He jumped as seven eyes popped open, one centered at the front of the beast's head, the other six balanced on either side of the central eye, but none symmetrical with any of the others. The smallest of them could have held Diaz, were he in the fetal position, easily.

The head suddenly split where Diaz didn't think it could have, and a hot wind enveloped him. Just like its eyes, a hollowed-out tooth could have held Diaz without much squeezing involved.

One of the smaller eyes pointed directly at Diaz. It had moved independently of all the others, which wasn't a very comforting thing to watch. Diaz felt tension like never before; He wasn't great with words. He just said what he saw as the truth, but he needed more here.

"Oh, great Drag-" he began, almost chanting, but a more forceful hot wind cut him off. Apparently even those imprisoned for a literal eternity could be impatient. Good. Directness was easier anyway.

"Alright then. The winglies are utter bastards and," again Diaz was cut off as the eye that was looking at him, and several others as well, snapped to his left. He followed the dragon's gaze to a long window that looked into one of the hallways he had passed. It appeared that both hallway and window completely encircled this place. And through that window he could see two platinum-haired heads, turned towards one another in conversation, heading his way.

Diaz instinctively looked around. But he knew there was nowhere to hide, and nowhere to go. He would have had the option of going the opposite way in the hallway, to circle his way to the exit, but they were too close already. They would see him.

Out of options Diaz walked to the side of the platform, folded his hands in front of him, and tried to look scared. He even forced himself to shake a little.

He could hear the winglies conversation just before they came in front of the exit, but only enough to know that they were talking. When they walked in front of the exit their conversation stopped, and after a few seconds, he heard their footsteps approaching. He glanced up sheepishly, then looked back down at the floor in front of his feet.

"Look up, human," one of the winglies said.

Diaz looked up at them, and he could easily tell who had spoken. The one on his right was smiling, as if at a grand joke that kept him at the point of laughing out loud. The other simply looked bored while leaning on a railing that hasn't existed until he began leaning on it. They both looked like every other male wingly, of course, and their hair was worn the same as every other guard so that if it weren't for the disparate facial expressions Diaz might have thought he was seeing double.

"What are you doing here, slave," the smiling one asked. He sounded pleased by Diaz's presence.

"My master is visiting one of the embassies and told me I was to wait here for his return. He knows," Diaz cut off purposely and rolled his eyes to the right towards the Divine dragon, and forced a nervous twitch.

"Well," the smiling one said, "either your owner doesn't like you very much, or he has a kind heart with his local guards." At that he looked at his companion, clearly thinking at this point his levity in this situation was contagious.

"The Divine Dragon's not so scary," the smiling wingly said ominously. "Here, take a closer look."

Suddenly Diaz felt as if a minotaur had wrapped its hands around his arms and chest, then he was lifted off the ground. He kept the mask of fear, but it was a mask. Death was something he had long ago accepted was coming for him sooner or later. That was the arena life. He would have been happier to spit in this wingly's face, but any hope of survival came with maintaining the mask.

"Stop Filib," the other wingly said before Diaz could speak. It was the first time he had spoken or shown any interest in the situation at all. "The last slave you fed to that beast cost us each half a week's pay. I could get much more entertainment across the city for half that."

Filib's smile faltered for the first time since Diaz had first seen him. "What's your owner's name," he asked Diaz.

Diaz wished he could lie now. He certainly didn't want this coming up later. And he was certain there were winglies whose names would garner more respect than Bearnard's. But he didn't know any, except a couple that would have sounded ridiculous, and even if he had he didn't know what these winglies knew.

"Bearnard Crain," Diaz said, trying to sound more afraid than angry.

"I've never heard of him," Filib said. After a quiet moment, he added, "Caolais?"

"No," Caolais responded, "but if he has business at an embassy, he's either a merchant or a diplomat. Either one would end up getting more money out of us than he's worth. Leave it, Filib."

Filib looked back at Diaz with a raised eyebrow, then smiled. "Alright, stop worrying. I've had my fun." With that Diaz dropped back to the floor, and the two winglies left, resuming their conversation as if nothing had interrupted them.

As they walked away Diaz stood up, then spat in their direction.

When he turned back to the dragon its eyes were half-closed, and they seemed to be pointing in too many different directions. It looked to be in some kind stupor. Suddenly its eyes opened fully, and several of them focused on Diaz.

"So you've taken to fooling them too," Diaz said. The dragon didn't react at all. "I've spent the majority of my day watching my own people tortured and murdered, some gigantos and minintos too. I know dozens of your own kind have died at their hands."

The Divine Dragon watched silently, unmoving. "They have forgotten how to fight," Diaz said, feeling more passionate about his words now, "they use their magic for trinkets and trifles now, but we know. Enough of us know how, anyway. But there is nothing we could do about their magic, and killing is remarkably simple."

The Divine Dragon continued staring, motionless, silent. Diaz wasn't sure what he was hoping for at this point, but he knew the dragon was capable of more. It had taken on the expression of a stupor at the winglies entrance, thus was capable of deception, or even mocking. It could do something to let him know it understood.

"If the dragons join us and fight them," Diaz said angrily, "even just to use your magic to counter theirs, we could kill them all. Humans, dragons, all of us, we could be free!" Diaz realized then he was almost panting, but he didn't care as fury welled up in him. This so-called king of dragons remained motionless, and several eyes even looked away, as if it were bored.

"Blast you," Diaz was yelling now, "Your own kind have been slaughtered! They said you were too strong to hold, but here you sit, too weak or too dumb-" the dragon's head lunged in his direction.

For only the second time in his life, Diaz experienced something that must have been what an explosion was. He had been talking, well shouting, when suddenly he had been cut off by the loudest sound he had ever experienced. If every seat in the arena had been filled with a shouting spectator it would have been half as loud. At the same instant, the ground had shaken violently throwing Diaz forward.

He stumbled forward and his chest slammed against something he couldn't see. All sounded had faded, and his vision was doubled. As his senses were righted and his equilibrium restored he saw he had fallen against the railing that did not exist until someone touched it.

It was then that Diaz saw what the Divine Dragon was standing on; nothing. When Diaz looked up he saw the railing wasn't the only invisible thing that had been revealed. Massive chains, each link twice the size of a man, connected the Divine Dragon to the surrounding wall.

The chains stretched taut between the wall and the dragon, and where they ran into the wall, the two seemed to become one. Then Diaz saw where the chain met the dragon. He hadn't noticed the broken or missing scales on its hide. Just like on the wall the chains ran directly into the dragon. Some scales had partially grown over where the links entered its flesh, but Diaz saw where some scales were missing that the chains had torn new wounds in the dragons flesh. Those were still just as taunt.

There were many chains and they were placed in such a way that Diaz couldn't see how the dragon managed to move at all.

"I'm sorry," Diaz said, "I didn't..." he stopped as he noticed the chains shimmering out of existence again. All except one. One end of the last chain was hanging from the side of its neck opposite Diaz, the other end dangled from the wall. "You could break free!"

Suddenly the dragon resumed the look of a stupor. Diaz looked around and saw lights moving across the window at an incredible pace. The same two guards from before flew around the corner and landed on the far side of the platform. They tried to look angry but their expressions kept slipping into fear. At least Diaz thought they did. There was an odd shimmering in the air in front of the two.

Diaz racked his brain furiously, but he couldn't come up with a lie to explain himself. He would just have to say the thing went crazy and hope they didn't come down on him for it.

"What under Soa happened here?" Caolais said.

"Where's that slave," Filib asked.

"I think," Caolais stopped to swallow, "I think it broke that chain lunging at him. Look it even broke the railing where he was standing."

Filib expression was all fury now, but his stance relaxed, and he waved his hand which ceased the shimmering. "Well, the thing was eaten anyway," Filib said angrily, "I bet we'll end up paying for it anyway."

Diaz tried to understand what was happening. He was standing in the open, yet they acted as if he weren't there at all. He looked at the railing, he hadn't realized how hard he had been gripping it, but it appeared fine.

He looked back at the guards, they were staring at a small metallic ball floating at their eye level. Diaz had no idea where it had come from, but after a couple of seconds and flew away from them and up through the hole far above their heads. Still, the two gave no indication that they were aware of the man standing just a handful of paces away.

"Stay here," he heard Caolais ask incredulously. "How would us staying here help the panic up there?"

"I don't know," Filib replied, "and I don't care. I'll be staying in the guard-room until backup arrives. If it's breaking out, let someone try to stop it."

Caolais looked around clearly nervous. "I..." he started but faltered before following Filib back into the hallway. They didn't run, but their pace was far from casual.

Diaz thought perhaps the sphere had come with orders for the two to remain. At least it was the only thing that would make what he had just seen make sense. But why couldn't they SEE him?

He looked back at the railing. After he let go it faded away slowly. It couldn't have been that. The winglies would have known about it. They wouldn't have thought it was broken.

He looked to the Divine Dragon. "You...hid me," Diaz asked as much as stated. It was the only possibility, as impossible as it seemed.

All Diaz got in answer was gigantic bared teeth moving slowly toward him.

"I'm sorry," Diaz said quickly. "I see now. You are strong enough. I was just frustrated." The dragon kept moving closer, its jaw cracked open. "Please," Diaz pleaded with it, "we can do this. Working together we would never be prisoners again!"

Still, the dragon just inched closer, opening its mouth slightly wider. Diaz glanced back at the exit. How long until someone else came? The guards had been told to stay here so digestive must be on his way. How long did Diaz have before he was caught? The way the Divine Dragon was acting the only other option seemed to be being eaten.

Diaz backed away slowly. He was certain there was something he could say, some perfect combination of words that would convince the dragon. Edvin was always saying the right words said in the right way at the right time would convince anyone of anything. But Diaz had no idea what to say, and his time was running out.

Diaz turned and ran back through the tunnel and up the staircase outside it. At the top, he saw the streets were completely empty, but he could see a few winglies peeking fearfully around corners or through windows. Diaz ran to a street around which he saw no peeking faces.

He headed in the direction of the slave quarter, away from his own home, in case someone might want to talk to the slave who had been seen running from the area of mass panic.

When he doubled back, this time on a street much closer to the city's edge, he could see a few distant lights crisscrossing the open area. He was too far to make them out easily, but he knew them for those telltale wings. He continued along the street quickly. He didn't think he would be stopped, but the sun now hung low, low enough to be hidden by distant buildings, but he thought his day was far from over.

Rose awoke to pain. She could feel her hand again, and it was agony. She could feel her jaw again, and it was agony. She could feel her chest again, and every half breath was agony. She couldn't even fill her lungs completely due to the pain.

She couldn't move. Getting up would have required using one side of her body to roll onto the other as the first step. And no part of the right side of her body could take either of those. So she lay there as the pink light from the rooms large windows faded away.

She had no way of knowing how much time had passed, it was just a blur of pain to her, but she knew she wasn't going to die soon from these injuries. Any decision she might be able to make started after she got up, but she didn't think she had the strength for it.

She found herself vividly remembering another time of constant pain in her life. The time when she had lived with her father. He had lived to hurt others and was apparently so unsatisfied with what he got in the arena that he would also take it out on Rose and her mother.

She remembered being forced to stand at his entrance during a fight, once. She had long forgotten anything leading up to it, beyond that he had dragged her there physically. But she remembered the fight well.

Her father's arm had been skewered by a thin sword, and he had been knocked to the ground. While his opponent was putting on a show for the ground, her father used the sword to push himself up, shoving it in further. His sword had skewered the other man's neck.

Rose thought about how much shoving that sword deeper into his own arm must have hurt. She thought about all the times he had knocked her mother to the ground and kicked her. Then she gave herself over to one thought: I am not weaker than that...bastard!

She placed her ruined arm on the floor beside her and pushed hard. As she rolled it felt as if something inside her rolled the other way, but she ignored it. Getting her good arm and leg under her she lurched to her feet, stumbling, but catching herself on the bedpost.

She glanced at the windows, and the balcony on the other side of them. She pictured her father, then closed her eyes and straightened. I won't be weaker than him, she thought as she strode toward a wardrobe with several robes. She stumbled immediately. Her legs could hold her weight fine, but walking on her right foot sent shooting pains throughout her chest.

Tears streaming down her face, Rose carefully limped over to the wardrobe. From it, she pulled out the only completely opaque item, a solid white hooded robe with a silver sphere loosely wrapped about with two feathered wings emblazoned on the back. The robes marked out the king's personal property. Very few would bother a slave wearing one of these unless they were quite certain that they could.

As Rose prepared to put the robe on she even that simple task would seem unbearable. Every slight twist or bend in her torso sent jolts of agony throughout her body. The same was true of her right arm.

She awkwardly worked her left arm into its sleeve, then gritted her teeth in preparation for the pain of getting the robe over her head. As she worked it down her shoulders the pain was too much and she screamed out. Only fear of how much falling to her knees would have hurt kept her upright.

The robe was neither too tight or too baggy. Under the correct circumstances, it was designed to be perfectly comfortable. But with her right arm tucked against her side, it was far from the correct circumstances. She looked at the right sleeve hanging empty. She knew there was no way she would be able to get her arm through it now. Besides which squeezing her arm against her side seemed to help a bit. The pain was almost describable now.

Quickly sliding her left foot, then slowly, carefully moving her right into position barely in front of the left, she made her way out of the apartments. She hobbled this way down the back corridor of The King's Floor, to a servant staircase.

The wingly servants were not kind to slaves found in their places, but there were very few servants, just enough to service those who felt themselves beyond being personally served by slaves, and none would interfere with someone wearing one of these robes. And these were the fastest way out of the palace. Servants were meant to not be seen while getting where they were headed quickly.

As short as the route was, it still took her closer to two hours than one. She could only take a new step with her left foot and had to lean heavily on the railing to do so. On top of that, the further she went the longer and more frequently she would stop to lean against the wall, press her face against the cool stone and cry quietly. Tears hadn't stopped flowing down her cheeks since she had first stood up, and she wondered how long it could last before she just ran out.

Perhaps her one blessing of the night was how long it took her. It had been dark when she started, and now it was well into the night. When she finally reached one of the bridges connecting Nalekadessa to the city she could see no one walking its streets.

By the time she reached the middle of the bridge, she was supported by the railing far more than by her own feet. She slumped against it, her breathing coming in small labored gasps. She still couldn't fill her lungs. Each step took her longer to take, and the blackness was edging into her vision again.

She knew exactly where she was going, and she was very close. It was just down the street and around the corner. But she could no longer see down the street. Even the end of the bridge was a blur to her now.

She could no longer feel anything but the pain, but she knew she could make it there. It was then that she slipped and fell to the ground on her right side. The pain became too much and she sobbed once, then she couldn't get any air into her lungs at all.

As she lay convulsing, trying desperately to breathe, the world around her a blur, she saw two specks of light coming towards her. They grew larger and resolved themselves into wings. But the wingly between them could have been a man, a woman, or a minotaur for all Rose could make out.

She hadn't made it there, and whoever this was would certainly return her to the palace. The robe's mark guaranteed that. Unless this wingly didn't know how to heal, in which case she would die here. As the wingly drew closer, and the world grew darker, she almost hoped he didn't.


	9. Chapter 9- Beside the Fire

Edvin stared into the flames burning in a small cubby in the center of one of the basement's walls. There was nothing to actually burn, the flames just sprang from a metal plate built into the floor. It was an installation from when Kadessa was first built before anyone realized a floating city would need to maintain heating across the whole city to remain viable.

Edvin liked the fire cubby because it showed how wrong, or at least how short-sighted, the winglies could be, but also because watching the dancing flames helped him think clearly. There was something about staring into the flickering light, and watching bits of flame jumping off the main body then quickly dying, that cleared his mind of all distractions. Although a clear mind was hard to obtain after everything Diaz had just dropped onto him.

Diaz sat nearby, tapping his foot quickly. The man was only truly patient when he was waiting to do something. He could stand like a stone for hours before a fight, but here he was waiting to sit and listen.

"Did anything happen here," Diaz asked. Edvin gave him a questioning look and Diaz added, "no, don't answer. If it were anywhere near as important as the rest you would have brought it up already."

Diaz had told Edvin about everything that had happened after Bearnard had shown up and taken him away. At least Diaz claimed it was everything, and Edvin couldn't imagine anything crazier than some of what he had been told.

"Are you certain of Bearnard's wording," Edvin asked. "About picking our fights based on whether or not you could defeat those...things?"

Diaz looked at him incredulously. "That's what you want to talk about first," he said.

"It has the most pressing repercussions for us that we might actually be able to do something about," Edvin responded. "I thought it would be what you would most want to discuss. You do say I should focus more on what is present and 'real.'"

Diaz let out one short laugh. "I thought you'd be too interested in what happened with the damned dragon," he said. "Blast me, but I have no clue why I'm even still alive." That last had a hint of a question.

Diaz was unparalleled when it came to assessing a man's strengths and weaknesses and planning a fight accordingly. But when a problem couldn't be out-maneuvered he most often turned to Edvin. He claimed Edvin was smarter and far better at figuring out just about anything, but Edvin knew the only real difference was the knowledge he had attained from years of voracious reading.

"There was very little written about dragons," Edvin told him. "The indexes marked places for dragon training, breaking, controlling, and a dozen others that all essentially mean the same thing, but those slots were, of course, empty.

"What knowledge they do have amounts to this: Dragons are intelligent enough to communicate and think critically, but they are the least intelligent of the few species who can do so. Their intelligence is like a drop of water to the ocean of their physical and magical strength. Finally, all that strength is dwarfed by their immense pride. It is the only place I've ever seen the word hubris written. Apparently, they felt the word pride to be insufficient to describe dragons, and so made a new one. There were a few volumes on their biology naturally, and a collection of theories on how they communicate, but none that I've read.

"As to why he let you go and shielded you from the winglies vision, I can only guess it was for his pride," Edvin finished. Diaz remained quiet for a moment and Edvin realized that last wasn't much of an explanation at all. "It is believed the Divine Dragon is much smarter than the rest. When you insulted him he probably assumed the world had forgotten his might, and so displayed it to you that you might remind those who have forgotten." Not that that was at all necessary. The ground had probably shaken all over the city. Edvin had certainly felt it.

Diaz sighed. He seemed not just disappointed, but suddenly very tired. "I had almost hoped," he began trailing off, "no. Nevermind."

"Blast me, Diaz," Edvin said, "you didn't still think...Blast me, but you actually took advice from Helmer? The man is the thick brained son of a thick brained fool. The fact that he named his son Helmer is proof enough of that."

Diaz laughed again. "That's true," he admitted, "but I saw it for myself. That dragon could break free if it wanted. Who knows what else it could do?

"Bah," Diaz said, sounding frustrated. "Forget it. You're probably right. I'd take your speculation over any other man's certain fact. It's just," Diaz paused to look around. The others all slept in the bed stacks across the large basement from them, but Diaz still eyed them for a while before continuing. "I'm going to make it to the ground, Edvin. Whatever it costs me. Blast me, but I just want to feel the real ground beneath my feet before I die. And die a free man at that."

"A hunted man, more likely," Edvin said. "Diaz, we've lived longer than most fighters do, but you sound like a man staring into his grave, planning to live his last days."

"Perhaps," Diaz said, "but a hunted man is free until he is caught."

Edvin laughed, he couldn't help it. Diaz looked at him oddly so he said, "You sound like me. You don't just think of the future, you dream! By Soa, I can't tell if you dream too big or too small, but I do believe I've rubbed off on you."

Diaz grimaced. Edvin gave him a nudge and said, "Come now, it's not so bad, dreaming. Dreamers-"

"Dreamers built flying cities," Diaz cut him off. "Dreamers used their infinite power to achieve the 'dream' of dominating others, then created trivialities to entertain themselves. You were right, now is not the time to dream. We must deal with what is real. Tell me what you were thinking about what Bearnard said."

"Dreamers are always free in a way," Edvin said. "Peace," he added after seeing an angry look cross Diaz's face. "Bearnard's statements. I'm afraid I see nothing good in them."

Diaz said, "My first thought was that he wanted to know whether to pit us against them at all, but his behavior, that infuriating smile, makes me certain he was holding something back."

"It's possible," Edvin said. It was possible that the wingly had had a complete change in personality, but highly improbable. "But it's far more likely he wants to maximize the profit from the fight whether we win or die.

"If you believe we can win I think he will set us up against enemies who will push us to the limit of our abilities. He will want us to barely win the matches. Perhaps he will even want one of us who isn't essential to victory to die. All this will make us seem past our prime, and so not up to the task of taking out these executioners.

"However, if you believe we can't we win, I believe he will set us up to fight very strong opponents we could still easily beat. He would want shows like the one three days ago with the minotaur, minus the death of course. It would be a very difficult balance for him to strike, I'm not sure he even could, but it might convince enough people that we could kill at least one of the executioners, which eventually they would want to see. And if enough people called for it he could probably leverage an insurance payout from the arena in the case of our defeat, and if he plans all our prior fights well, it will be a massive payout."

Diaz sighed again, somehow looking even wearier than before. "If you're right, and again I'd never doubt it, we have no good options. Our best hope would be that they didn't grow bored with the executioners for a long time, but the problem is they've already grown bored with them. This whole thing began because they want to see them done away with.

"Still, I see no better option than to say that we couldn't win, then win. Only, I don't think we can. They have magic, even if it is weaker and less versatile than the winglies', and I don't know how we could deal with that."

"I doubt telling him we could win if he provided us with something, or someone, else would have a positive effect either," Edvin added. "And winning a fight he wanted us to lose...well that reaction isn't predictable at all, but whatever it is it won't be pleasant for us."

"Right," Diaz said. "Any other dark news you'd like to add?"

Edvin hesitated. "Nothing about this. Not at the moment." Edvin had thought of something, but with how Diaz had acted today, and the anger he displayed when he recounted his day, it seemed likely to set him off.

"The trials," Diaz said. "Whatever it is tell me."

Diaz already seemed tight, tiredness had melted away into a carefully neutral expression. Edvin sighed. Diaz would never hide something like this from him.

"From what I can tell," Edvin began, pausing to find the right words. When he couldn't find them, he just stated what he thought the truth to be bluntly. "It's population control."

Diaz didn't move, but after hearing the words he seemed to be on the verge of exploding into movement. "I see how it's the only reasonable explanation," he said, "but why?"

"You know we weren't meant to read the books," Edvin began, "but the librarians ignored us completely, and we lived in the attic after all. One of the books I taught myself on was an account of the wingly rise to power. Most of it was quite vague, but the death count wasn't. King Frahma found something, there was no name or description, and then hundreds of millions died. Whole cities were flattened or incinerated in moments. It was genocide on a scale never equaled. The only wingly deaths were those who had been too close to human settlements, but still, when the dust settled we outnumbered them.

"The winglies were never prolific breeders, now less than ever, but us? By what I've read it wouldn't take too many generations before there were just too many of us for them to handle." As he finished he heard a snapping sound. He hadn't noticed Diaz standing, or gripping the back of his chair.

Diaz tossed the broken chair back aside. "Slaughtered by the dozens every day," he said. "Just for being born?" He remained quiet, but as he spoke his intensity rose. "Well damn the dragons, and may their king rot in his cage. We'll find a way to beat their magic. We'll kill the executioners and with that proof show all the slaves that we can overcome the winglies."

Edvin stood and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. Squeezing lightly he said, "Diaz every man here has no choice but to follow you into this thing. If we're going to have any chance, you can't be ruled by anger. We need you to be the man who never loses. We need you to win this fight. We'll see what we see after that."

Diaz took a deep breath. "You're right," he said. "Tomorrow I have to tell Bearnard we can't win. Then you and I will talk about how we'll find a way to win." He sighed deeply. "Easier said than done. But we will do. I swear it."

Edvin nodded but said nothing as Diaz went to his bed. Easier said than done was a vast understatement. They were up against magic Diaz couldn't understand after spending most of a day watching it. And then he intended to fight the winglies. What had gotten into the man? Madness as much as anything.

Edvin sat down again and stared into the flames. The piece of chair back had landed in the cubby and had just started to burn itself. He watched the wood burn and centered his thoughts.

Humans outnumbered the winglies at least a hundred to one. But one hundred winglies who had their minds set to destruction could make short work of twenty thousand men in open battle. And before today Diaz had known that to his bones. He above all others had insisted that they must be obeyed in all things. So was this change anger, madness, or did he truly have a real reason to believe they could win their freedom? He certainly hadn't told Edvin of any such revelation.

Edvin considered the times he had witnessed wingly magic first-hand. He had never seen strictly destructive magic. But he had seen things heated to melting, and heavy loads that would easily crush anyone lifted without visible effort. Such things could easily be weapons.

He considered the problem, considered magic and how it might be overcome. He now knew his life did depend on it, almost certainly. But he also considered how to bring Diaz to sense about fighting their masters. And what to do if he couldn't.

****************  
Zieg sat on a bench in the basement, recalling a time when he ate, slept, and spent most of his life in one. Now he sat in a basement that had been just storage until he started using it to pretend to fight, trying to recapture the feeling of being in the arena. But nothing could recreate the feeling of losing yourself in battle. The rush was unrivaled.

Zieg chuckled. The Unrivalled. One of his nicknames. There had been many. One for each owner, until the one that wanted to see him fail more than he had wanted the money from his sale.

Zieg placed his sword in its rack, then went to the stairs. It was late -he always practiced into the night- but he still heard the occasional noise from above. It wasn't that he disliked the other residents of the house, but they didn't have much in common, and being able to fight for long periods of time had already saved his life once.

He went to the common area curious about who would still be up, and why. To his surprise, Caron was pacing around the room. Occasionally she came to a chair or a table and the object would gently rise into the air and set itself down a little out of her way.

He was almost more surprised to find her alone. She was rarely seen without her giganto. They were master and slave of course, though she called him a friend. He claimed the same though he also talked of some dept to be repaid to her.

"There's an empty hallway behind me, perfect for pacing," Zieg said. "It would certainly be easier than rearranging the furniture every few seconds."

Caron turned around as he spoke, looking surprised. She looked around at the furniture, which seemed to have been placed at the direction of a blind person. She didn't say anything to him, merely walked to a chair set right against a table, which shifted itself to its former position, then sat down.

Caron looked the same as most winglies naturally, but she was far kinder than almost any that he had met. Another chair placed itself near hers while two cups gently landed on a table that itself moved between the two chairs, and two streams of dark liquid flowed from an ornate teapot into the cups.

Zieg sighed quietly, he had never had much fondness for tea, then he took the seat next to Caron. He politely took the cup, murmuring thanks, but did not drink. "So why," he began but she cut him off.

"I can not speak of it," it was odd for her to be so short with someone, but she did seem quite on edge. "Suffice it to say," Caron herself was cut off by a bang coming from the entryway.

In one smooth motion, Caron went from sitting to gliding quickly across the carpeted floor. Zieg followed quickly but stopped at the wall separating common area and entryway. He patted his side where he would have worn his sword, then shook his head. A foolish thought.

He peeked around the corner cautiously. He was allowed many liberties within the house, but others knowing about them could be awkward at the least. He barely had time to register what was happening before Charle hustled past him with a woman floating face-up behind her, and with Caron right on her heels muttering angrily.

The floating woman might have been beautiful, had she not seemed to be half woman and half bruise. There was a fine cut along the white robe she wore revealing most of the right side of her body, which looked to have been caught between a rock and a charging bull.

"Charle, what in," Caron began before Charle cut her off.

"I'll tell you everything later," Charle said, "just follow me. Zieg bring me water in a large pot. Caron, you know where the books will be? She barely waited for a nod before adding, "get them."

Zieg moved quickly to the kitchen, grabbed a large pot, and placed it on the water stand. Zieg hit the button for full, and soon enough the pot began to fill itself with water. When it was he walked back to the common area as quickly as he could without spilling any water, then followed the sounds of Charle and Caron's voices into the dining room.

The woman was now naked and lying atop her robe across the dining room table. Charle and Caron were at her head looking at a couple of different books and discussing the injuries they could see, and the ones she probably had but weren't visible.

"There's something wrong with her skin," Charle said to Caron. "Some small bit of magic, so we'll have to find a way to break it or find a way through it."

Caron nodded along while flipping back and forth through one of the books. "Perfect," Caron said, "so whatever muck you've dragged me into is a little deeper than I thought."

"I don't think anyone is going to miss poor Rosie now. And the other thing was just as much your idea as mine." Caron looked at Zieg as Charle finished.

"Set the water on the table. Leave or stay but don't make a sound. This will be hard enough without distractions." Caron was on edge. Or maybe Zieg had become more accustomed to leniency than he had thought.

Zieg moved to the door but ended up taking a seat against the wall. He had no idea what was going on, but Caron had been here for something important. And the woman Charle called Rosie, which certainly meant her name was either Rose or Rosalyn, must be important too, to have Charle in such a frantic state. Then again Charle treated just about anyone she happened across as incredibly important. Still, Zieg couldn't bring himself to leave.

Zieg might as well have left for all he learned sitting there. Charle and Caron barely spoke except to ask about what one book said about bone shape, or another said about blood flow. He didn't know what the water he had brought was for and only noticed halfway through whatever it was they were doing that the pot had nearly been emptied.

When they finally finished they both slumped into nearby chairs. "Charle, what the hell happened," Caron asked.

"I found Rosy like this on my way back from the palace," Charle brushed some hair from the unconscious woman's face. "I think she was trying to make it here."

"Charle you know what I mean. What happened," Caron suddenly stopped talking and looked at Zieg. "Maybe you should find the girl a bed, Zieg."

Zieg flinched, realizing he'd become so still and quiet he felt like he had been eavesdropping. He hesitated, something most humans didn't have the luxury of being allowed to do, then moved to comply.

"Yes, please do," Charle smiled warmly, "she'll be more tired than anything. Put her in a nice guest room, Ziggy. Try to make sure she's comfortable." Zieg really hated being called that. But any other wingly he had met would have at least beaten him for that hesitation, so he counted that a fair trade.

Zieg went to pick up the woman, folding both sides of the cut robe to cover her, but as soon as he got one hand under her she just lifted into the air. "That will last until you set her down," Charle said. "After you get her settled would you ask Cly to bring her some food and water for when she wakes, then come see Caron and I if he's not too busy?"

"Of course," Zieg started to turn with his now weightless burden but stopped. "Charle what's going on? Why were you out so late? Who is this woman?"

Zieg instinctively tensed, though he knew Charle wouldn't strike out. He was surprised when Caron responded though. "If it were something you should hear then you wouldn't have been dismissed. Charle gives you more leeway than anyone else in the world would. You can show a little respect to that by not overstepping such a clear line."

Charle placed her hand on top of Caron's. "Care please," Charle said soothingly. "I'm sorry Zieggy. We're a little on edge. Care is waiting on bad news, and I'm afraid I've brought it. I can't tell you more than that.

"I can, however, tell you her name is Rose," Charle nodded at the woman Zieg held aloft, "and she is, or rather was, Melly's slave. Please see her to a room now."

Zieg simply nodded then left. He could hear Caron talking about the respect anyone else would give Charle just as he walked through the doorway. Respect! The way Zieg saw it you couldn't declaw a lion, shoo it from room to room then expect "sorries" and "ma'ams" out of it. And Zieg the Unrivaled was no blasted house cat!

Rose woke up feeling grateful to be out of the nightmare, but as awareness returned to her she realized none of it had been a nightmare. That pain had been real. Far too real.

Her eyes shot open wide as full awareness came to her. The pain was completely gone, which was good, but also meant that some wingly had healed her. She didn't know where she was, but she was on a luxurious bed which made her fear she may be back home. Though home was a terrible word for it.

Looking around she realized this was definitely not the palace. There were several vases of flowers, and pictures of animals frolicking in springtime.

More pressing though, was the fact that she wasn't alone. A man was standing by a large fireplace where a fire seemed to be burning logs in reverse. She knew when the logs were whole they would start burning normally again.

"I haven't seen one of those in ages," she said. The man was not startled to hear her speak. He just nodded, seeming like he had already known she had woken up.

He turned around, and she found she recognized the man. Zieg. It had been years since she had seen him fight in the arena but she knew that face. It was a blunt face more suited to challenging glares than welcoming smiles. Not that he even tried on a welcoming smile.

"You're awake," he said. "You got a full night's rest and then some."

"Were you standing there the whole time," Rose asked, sitting up straight. As the blankets slid off her she realized all she had on was her thin robe, which someone had cut along one side. She decided being free of Melbu's sigil was more important than modesty to her, and slid the robe off before pulling the blankets back up around herself. The robe she tossed aside.

"No. I just took over. We thought it would be best if someone were here when you woke up." He must not have known who she was, or at least not the important part of who she was. There's no way he'd be the one waiting if he knew. Or he might have at least looked away while she wasn't covered.

"And where am I exactly," she asked. She had a theory and a fear about where she was. There were very few good possibilities for her.

"You're in Charle Frahma's house."

So she had made it. She had known Charle would help her but she was still Melbu's sister. How far could wingly kindness really go?

"Will she send me back?" It popped out before she could think better of it.

Zieg shrugged. "She said you weren't the king's slave anymore. But really I'm not the one to ask." He really seemed uninterested too.

Rose thought of the time she had met Charle before. She was more kind than any other wingly or human Rose had met, but she had never seen her stand up to Melbu. Though, of course, no one did.

And what if Melbu really wanted Rose back? What if nearly killing her had really just been an accident? She couldn't go back. But she couldn't do anything about it either way.

She looked back at Zieg. He had turned back towards the flames, one arm resting on the mantle, and one finger idly tapping. She thought back to that day in the arena when he had taken another man's life without a second's hesitation. She remembered him thrusting his bloody sword into the air, completely proud of his actions.

An idea formed in her head. It somehow seemed obvious to her, but she couldn't think of how to phrase the question. After all, it wasn't something normal people asked. At least she hoped it wasn't.

"Do you know about anything important happening in the palace lately," Zieg asked. "Something really important?" She was startled when he spoke. He had gotten so still and quiet she had thought he was ignoring her.

"I was rarely allowed to leave the apartments I stayed in. Other humans weren't allowed in there, and me being there was something of a secret. I guess I'm not the one to ask too."

Zieg made a noncommittal sounding grunt. "Well there's food and water on the bedside table," he gestured to her left. "Otherwise make yourself at home." He then turned to leave.

"I can't go back," she said, blurting it out before she could think. She had almost brought it up. Maybe he understood. It was his thing after all.

Zieg gave her a hard judging look. He seemed upset about something. "I have nothing to do with," he started.

"I'd rather die than go back," she said, cutting him off. She was staring at the foot of the bed, and she realized she had started shaking.

She glanced up for a second, then stared at him. He looked angry and disgusted. It was like he was looking at a large insect that had insulted him. The anger quickly faded leaving only disgust as he looked her up and down. She suddenly felt very uncomfortable with how little clothing she had on, and quickly pulled the covers closer to her chin, turning her eyes back to the foot of the bed. She didn't look back up.

She heard the door close and knew she was alone again.


End file.
